


And Then I Met You

by orphan_account



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Children, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Implied Childhood Sexual Abuse, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, children's home
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-04-15
Updated: 2015-05-24
Packaged: 2018-03-23 03:52:47
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 21,975
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3753484
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Enjolras has lived in the Musain Children's Home for three years. That's when Grantaire shows up, and everything changes.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter I

**Author's Note:**

> Mentions of abuse in this chapter, but nothing too graphic. Warning for language. Thanks for reading!

 

There's a car on the drive.

It's half past eight on a Saturday morning, Enjolras is perched lazily on his windowsill and there's a car on the drive. A car he's never seen before, he realises. He watches with intrigue as an unfamiliar woman gets out from the driver's side. She's a little chubby, with greying hair and a floral dress that's at least fifty years out of fashion. The woman opens one of the back doors and out slides a boy who Enjolras guesses is about his own age, with hands stuffed into the pockets of his grey hoodie and unruly dark curls tucked under a forest green beanie. It looks like the woman is scolding him for something as he scuffs his sneakers on the gravel, but it's hard to tell what's happening from a second floor window.

Curiosity getting the better of him, Enjolras hurries out of his bedroom and runs downstairs (breaking a house rule in the process). When he gets to the ground floor he notices that, sure enough, people have already started to gather in the hallway, chatting to each other in hushed voices. Enjolras spots his two best friends and walks over to join them. They're all in their pyjamas, Combeferre doesn't have his glasses on and Courfeyrac's hair is wild.

“Did you see him?” Courfeyrac asks when Enjolras approaches, “The new kid, I mean.”

“Javert never mentioned him to us,” muses Combeferre, “He must be like, a problem case. Last minute placement.”

Enjolras is used to this by now. Sometimes children are suddenly relocated for undisclosed reasons and they are required to spend a few days here at the Musain. No big deal.

At that moment, the doorbell rings, and Javert comes storming down the corridor. He's a stern man with ridiculous sideburns and an unnatural lack of humour, capable of terrifying the younger kids but Enjolras barely bats an eyelid when he raises his voice.

“Children,” the man hisses, making for the door, “Go back to your rooms at once.”

All of the kids rush out of sight and perch along the stairs, peeping through the banister inquisitively.

Enjolras can hear the boy as soon as Javert opens the door.

“Get the hell away from me!” he's yelling, but there's something about the way his voice cracks that makes him seem scared and vulnerable, “Leave me alone! I don't want to be here!”

From the sound of it, the new boy is literally being dragged inside against his will. Enjolras is sure that there must be something in protocol about touching kids without their consent, but there's not much he can do to stop it since he is, well, a kid.

“Rémy, you need to calm down,” says a female voice, presumably the plump woman from the car.

“I'll calm down when you all get the fuck away from me!” the boy, apparently Rémy, shouts. Enjolras blinks a few times at the swear, because cursing is very much against house rules.

“Don't you dare use that language in this house!” Javert roars, then he clears his throat and continues in a calmer voice, “Bring him through to my office, please. He can stay there until he learns to control his behaviour.”

There's more shouting, then the sound of a door closing, and the noise is muffled. Most of the younger children rush over to Javert's office, trying to listen in to the conversation. Enjolras just sighs.

“That was, well, interesting,” Combeferre remarks. Enjolras can't tell whether he's squinting in contemplation or just because he can't actually see anything.

There's a firm pat on his shoulder, and Enjolras quickly spins his head round to see Bahorel towering behind him with a nervous expression. It's so unusual to see the older boy, usually so carefree and full of laughter, looking worried.

“That,” he begins, “Was Grantaire. I do boxing with him.”

“I thought his name was Rémy,” says Combeferre.

“He prefers being called by his surname, like us. Ain't that rad? Kid's been through the mill recently. Pretty rough shit, if I'm honest.”

Enjolras nods. That makes sense, given current circumstances.

“His dad's like, an abusive asshole,” Bahorel continues with a frown, and Enjolras all but scoffs because he's pretty sure 'abusive asshole father' is a common character trope for kids in care, “That's probably why he's here. He's never been in care before, though.”

Enjolras remembers that well, when he was the new kid at the Musain and everything was terrifying. He made friends quite quickly and he already knew Combeferre and Courfeyrac from school, but it was so strange being in a house full of other kids, most of them with a lot of problems. He doesn't like talking about _why_ he's in care. Whenever someone asks he just shrugs and stays quiet. Nobody presses him further on it, he's thankful for that at least.

He's been here for three years, he realises, and that's  _such_ an odd thought. He was twelve when he was brought to the Musain, after the whole 'running away from home' incident. He was sent straight into care as soon as the police found out about his home situation and his father was arrested. Good riddance. His mother had died when he was nine and, well, that's when everything started to go wrong, really.

“So Grantaire, huh,” Courfeyrac chimes in, “Is he nice?”

“He's... Yeah, but he's got some, like... Issues.”

“Literally everyone in care has issues,” Enjolras can't help blurting out.

Bahorel shakes his head. “Just go easy on him,” is all he says to them before he makes his way upstairs.

The rest of the kids follow his lead, since Bahorel is basically their cool older brother. He's one of the few people that actually stand up to Javert, for which the rest of the children are very thankful. He's also very good at splitting up fights, which is weird considering he spends most of his spare time _participating_ in them. Bahorel is, in a word, a legend.

They have to go up the stairs _very_ slowly so that Combeferre doesn't trip over. Enjolras' patience is hanging on a thread by the time they reach the first floor landing.

“Maybe I should just go and get your glasses,” suggests Courfeyrac, “It'd be like, you know, quicker.”

“It's alright, I can manage,” Combeferre replies ( _trust him to be stubborn,_ Enjolras thinks as they start the next flight of stairs).

When they finally get to the second floor they all go to straight Courfeyrac and Combeferre's room, which means Enjolras is technically breaking the rules. He doesn't exactly care. It seems stupid that he's not allowed in his best friends' room. Courfeyrac sprawls across his bed, whilst Combeferre fumbles through the clutter on his desk in search for his glasses. Enjolras finds it quite amusing which is why he doesn't mention that they're on the windowsill, where he's currently sat. For some reason it's his favourite place to sit; he finds it relaxing just gazing out of the window.

“Where the hell are they?” Combeferre mutters to himself with a hint of desperation in his voice, and Enjolras caves in.

“Here, right beside me,” he says, and if it wasn't for the squinting he would think that Combeferre is currently glaring at him.

Combeferre was already at the Musain when Enjolras met him in the  _école primaire._ The boy is only a year older than his two best friends but acts twice his age, even behaving like he's their mother sometimes (“Enj, do your homework” “Courf, go to bed”). Then there's Courfeyrac, who is the human embodiment of a puppy, and possibly the most cheerful person Enjolras has ever met. He loves them both like brothers.

They sit in the room for a while, doing their own thing. Combeferre reads, Courfeyrac plays a game on his phone and Enjolras stares vacantly out of the window. It's blissfully silent until Javert calls his name, and Enjolras almost falls off the windowsill in shock.

“Jesus Christ, what's wrong with that man?” he mutters.

“You should go downstairs,” says Combeferre, like it wasn't obvious.

“Yeah, I'm going.”

The social worker is waiting for him in the hallways, arms folded and eyes narrowed, and Enjolras cannot think of literally anything he's done recently that could get him into trouble (apart from being in other children's rooms, running downstairs, whatever).

“We need to talk,” Javert says, in that calm-but-serious tone that usually means someone's about to get shouted at.

Enjolras trudges into his office and there, sat on the tatty old couch, is Grantaire. His knees are tucked up to his chest and Enjolras can tell from the sniffles and red eyes that he's been crying. He smiles at the boy, trying to be friendly, but Grantaire just sighs and looks down at his shoes.

“As you know,” Javert states, closing the door behind him, “You're one of the only children here who doesn't share a room.”

_Oh._ Enjolras can see where this is going.

“We need a place for Rémy to sleep,” the man continues, “Musichetta's room is out of the question, obviously,” God, Enjolras _really_ hates gender segregation sometimes, “And it would be inappropriate to place him with a nine-year-old.”

He's talking about Gavroche. Little Gavroche Thénardier, the youngest one here, the kid who raids the fridge at night and sneaks into Courfeyrac's room to borrow his games console. One of his sisters seems constantly ready to start a fight, the other is as timid as a mouse. Enjolras suspects something bad went on with their family but he's polite enough not to ask. It's like an unwritten rule of the Musain that you don't ask people why they're here.

“Can you not fucking call me that?” he hears the boy mumble, and he shoots him a warning glare.

Surprisingly, Javert doesn't react to the swearing this time. “I refuse to call you by your last name, it's too formal for these circumstances,” he says, which roughly translates to “I'm not going to respect your opinions because I'm an adult and you're just a child”.

“Yeah, well,” Grantaire responds, full of bitterness, “My father chose that name for me so you can't blame me for not liking it.”

“I refuse to-”

“ _Please_ , just call me R at least,” the boy has so much despair in his voice that a lump forms in Enjolras' throat.

Javert sighs. “You will be sharing a room with Alexandre,” he says.

Enjolras would normally argue about being called by his first name, except after Grantaire's outburst he doesn't feel like he has a good enough excuse.

“I'm _sorry_ ,” he says instead, “When exactly did you actually ask for my opinion on this? Because I don't remember that happening.”

“You don't have a choice in this matter,” Javert replies stoically.

“No, no, listen to me. I get that the guy needs a room, I _get_ that, but you know how I feel about-”

“You don't have a choice in this matter,” Javert repeats himself, “You _will_ be sharing a room.”

Enjolras grits his teeth. “I am  _not_ sharing a room.”

Grantaire looks offended. No, worse than offended, he looks  _hurt._ Enjolras lets out a sigh and tries his best to smile at him.

“Uh, it's not you, it's me,” he tells the boy, and that's probably the most pathetic thing he's ever said.

“Save your excuses, Alexandre. You have to share.”

“Javert, have you forgotten-”

“No more excuses,” Javert cuts in.

“It literally says in my file that-”

“You're sharing with Rémy and that's not up for debate,” the man interrupts him again, raising his voice this time.

“This is... Fuck you!” Enjolras lashes out before he can stop himself.

“Watch your language,” Javert practically growls, “There will be no more discussion on the matter. You, young man, just earned yourself washing up duty for the rest of the week.”

Enjolras wants to scream. Or cry. Or both. He's pretty certain that Javert is breaking some sort of law by doing this. It says  _in his fucking file_ that he isn't allowed to share a room with anyone, and his social worker is blatantly ignoring it. He has no idea how Javert got employed.

He leaves the room, shaking and breathing too fast and on the verge of tears. Grantaire follows him, hands casually in his pockets.

“What's your deal with sharing a room?” he asks, and Enjolras is about to scowl at him when he realises that this is the boy's first time in a care home; he doesn't know the unwritten rules of being a kid in care.

“It's a long story,” he manages to say, rather feebly, “It's nothing personal, I swear. I don't have anything against _you_ or anything, I just-”

“Don't like sharing, I get it,” Grantaire finishes for him. Enjolras nods, grateful for the interruption.

He hadn't noticed before now that the boy's eyes are icy grey. They're stunning, he thinks. Completely different to his boring sky-blue eyes, and full of emotion. What emotion, exactly, he can't tell.

“So... Why are you here?” Enjolras inquires, because if Grantaire has never been in care before he doesn't know that it's wrong to ask that sort of thing.

He sees the Adam's apple in his throat bob up and down. “Dad's a dick,” he almost whispers, “I spent like, the whole night in hospital. Nothing's broken, apparently. Got some pretty nasty bruises though. And like, a bite mark. No idea where that came from. But whatever, could have been worse.”

Enjolras sighs. “Tell me about it.”

The scruffy-haired boy raises an eyebrow. “Oh? Yours a total bastard too?”

“He's... Yeah.”

Grantaire clears his throat, rather awkwardly. “Well, uh, for the record I don't think I'll be staying here for long so you won't have to worry about me invading your privacy or like, whatever.”

Enjolras gives him sort of a guided tour of the Musain. He doesn't seem very interested, though, since he keeps staring at Enjolras himself. It makes things a bit uncomfortable and Enjolras can't stop blushing, but he's smiling too.

“Isn't this where Bahorel lives?” Grantaire asks suddenly, and Enjolras blinks.

“Uh, yeah,” he replies, “He mentioned you before, actually. Said you do boxing together?”

“Yeah, that's right.”

It's hard to imagine Grantaire doing boxing. He's a couple of inches shorter than Enjolras and almost as thin (probably due to neglect or something), he seems to have some sort of tremor in his fingers and there are dark circles under his eyes.

“How old are you?” Enjolras enquires, when he realises he doesn't actually know.

For a moment, Grantaire almost looks flustered. “I, uh, fifteen,” he answers.

The corners of Enjolras' mouth twitch into a smile. “Me too,” he says, “That's cool.”

“What school do you go to?”

“Corinthe.”

“Cool, man. I'm moving there, apparently,” Grantaire informs Enjolras with a broad grin, “To get away from like, uh.”

“Rumours?” Enjolras suggests.

“No, like... Shitty people.”

He nods. Grantaire doesn't need to explain himself further. He's not stupid, he knows what bullying is.

“They wanted me to move schools when I came here,” he tells Grantaire, “They said it wasn't good for me to listen to all the rumours circulating and stuff, but I refused to leave Corinthe. I got into a lot of trouble with Javert but it worked. This way I can still go to school with my best friends.”

“Javert seems like a dick,” Grantaire remarks, and Enjolras scoffs.

“He is.”

“Are you gonna show me this bedroom of yours or...?”

“Oh, right. Follow me.”

They haven't seen the second floor yet. Grantaire notices instantly that it's a lot more rundown than the lower levels, with peeling wallpaper and stained carpets. As Enjolras leads him to his – well,  _their_ – room, he hears whispering.

“Is that the new boy?” says a voice that sounds suspiciously like Marius Pontmercy.

“I think so,” says another, suspiciously Jehan Prouvaire-like.

“He's with Enjolras. That's so weird. Enjolras never talks to new people.”

Enjolras clears his throat. He hears the two of them squeak.

“Enjolras!” Jehan exclaims with too much enthusiasm, twirling the end of his braid, “Didn't see you there.”

The blond boy raises an eyebrow. Next to him, Grantaire chuckles.

“H-hey Enjolras,” Marius stammers, anxiously chewing the inside of his cheek, “And, uh... New guy?”

“It's Grantaire, nice to meet you,” Grantaire shoots them a grin that really shouldn't be on the face of someone who was sobbing an hour ago.

“This is Jehan and Marius,” Enjolras tells him, “They, uh, share a room.”

“We certainly do!” Jehan giggles, then he blushes, “O-oh God, that sounded dirty, i-it wasn't meant-”

“It's fine, Jehan,” Grantaire laughs, “Well, anyway, Enjolras was just showing me to our room. See you round, losers.”

The smiles from Marius and Jehan's faces have completely disappeared.

“Y-you're... uh... sharing a room with Enjolras?” Marius asks, incredulous.

Grantaire shrugs. “Yeah, problem?”

They look at Enjolras like he's gone crazy. He sighs and rubs his temples. “Javert insisted,” he says, and they both roll their eyes, “It's okay, though. Grantaire seems... fine.”

“Wow, what a compliment,” says Grantaire, his voice dripping with sarcasm, “Nobody's ever called me 'fine' before. I'm touched.”

“Well, what do people normally call you?” Enjolras snaps, not meaning to, and he regrets it as soon as the words have left his mouth.

Grantaire looks down at his trainers and bites his lip. “Uh, the usual ones are 'pathetic' and 'waste of space' and sometimes, if I'm lucky, 'should never have been born'.” He's trying to make a joke out of it, and it makes Enjolras feel  _so_ guilty.

“I'm really sorry, I didn't mean-”

“No problem, dude,” Grantaire cuts in, “Where's this infamous bedroom of yours? I'm starting to think it doesn't actually exist.”

Enjolras leads him down the corridor and to his room. The first thing he sees when he gets inside is that a camp bed has already been made up for Grantaire. He groans and pinches the bridge of his nose.

“Wow, nice place,” says Grantaire, “And by 'nice' I mean 'too much red and smells like a candle shop', but at least it's... Organised?”

Okay, sure, his bedding and curtains (and rug and clothes and... everything) are red, and he does have quite a few scented candles, but he never thought these things would be a problem. Then again, he never thought he'd be sharing a room. As for organised, well, his bookshelf is alphabetised so that certainly says something.

Grantaire slumps down on the camp bed and exhales deeply. He looks bored. Enjolras doesn't really know what to do when people are bored, that's the sort of thing Courfeyrac deals with.

“Do you want to, uh, unpack your things?” he asks, and then he realises that Grantaire doesn't _have_ any things.

“That social worker lady is packing up some stuff for me,” Grantaire tells him, “But like, she said she might not have everything ready until this evening.”

“Right, sure... Do you want a drink or anything?”

“God, yes. I'm so thirsty.”

So as soon as they got to the top floor, they're going back downstairs again for drinks. Sometimes Enjolras curses himself for being so unfit. He really needs to do more exercise.

“Got any booze?” Grantaire asks when they get to the kitchen, and Enjolras can't tell whether or not he's joking.

“Um, no, just juice,” he says, “Cranberry or apple?”

“Apple, who the fuck likes cranberry?”

Enjolras pours two glasses of apple juice, not wanting to let Grantaire know that he absolutely adores cranberry. Can't get enough of the stuff, except technically it says in the rules that you're only allowed one glass of fresh juice per day. That must be classed as child cruelty or something.

They drink in silence. Surprisingly, nobody else comes into the kitchen. It's usually chaos: people rooting through the cupboards, climbing on tables, etc etc. Maybe they're all staying away from Grantaire. That would make sense, considering that most of the kids here are very guarded when it comes to new people. Enjolras can't blame them since he's exactly the same.

Although, he realises, he's allowed himself to trust Grantaire relatively quickly by his standards, and that's a little worrying. He shouldn't be this relaxed about having someone else in his room. Obviously he's still nervous, but...

“If you're still hung up about the room arrangements, I promise I won't murder you in your sleep or anything,” Grantaire states, apparently reading his mind.

Enjolras isn't sure how that sentence makes things any easier. “Uh, thanks? I won't murder you either, but I'll warn you in advance that I've been known to make a lot of noise in my sleep, and I move around a lot-”

“I'm a snorer, apparently,” Grantaire interrupts.

“I'm just saying,” sighs Enjolras, “If I wake up in the night screaming, please don't... Please don't come and check on me, okay? Just... Leave me alone.”

It comes out ruder than he'd intended, but bluntness is always best in these situations. Grantaire nods, thankfully not looking too offended.

“I get it, dude, nightmares are a dick,” he says, and Enjolras is starting to wonder whether his vocabulary spans beyond 'dude' and 'dick', “What is it? Demons? Vampires? Clowns?”

Enjolras smiles a bit. “No, nothing like that. Something more... real.”

“Ah, I see.”

Grantaire has already mastered the not-pressing-for-answers thing, which Enjolras is very grateful for. He taps his fingers on the table absentmindedly.

“Jean will be doing lunch soon,” he says, more to himself than to the boy beside him.

“Jean?” Grantaire questions, taking a sip of his juice.

“He's like our housekeeper, or something like that,” Enjolras tells him, “He adopted a kid, too. Cosette. She used to live here. Well, she kind of still does, the amount of time she and her father spend here.”

“Sounds like a nice guy,” says Grantaire.

“He is. He's a million times better than Javert.”

The boy scoffs and pulls his beanie down just a little. “I don't imagine that's hard.”

Enjolras chuckles. “Well, no.”

It's about twelve o'clock when Jean bursts in cheerfully, flashing a broad grin at Enjolras and Grantaire when he sees the boys sat at the table. Cosette follows after him. Her hair is tied neatly into pigtails and she's wearing a white and pink polka-dot dress that Enjolras has never seen before. It's kind of messed up, he thinks, that when she was legally living here she wore scuffed trainers and old cardigans and now she's clad in smart shoes and pretty dresses. It says something about the management of the Musain; they can't even clothe their kids properly, and that just sucks.

Cosette's thirteen but she looks about ten. Her cheeks are perpetually rosy and there's a little gap between her two front teeth. Enjolras remembers when she was a timid, nervous girl who cried at just about everything but now she's always confident and chirpy, no doubt because of her adoptive father's influence.

“Hello Enjy!” she greets, and Enjolras smiles fondly at the nickname.

“Hey Cosy,” he replies, “This is Grantaire. He's, uh, new.”

“Oh right,” says Cosette, then she grins at Grantaire, “Being the new kid sucks, right?”

Enjolras isn't sure how well she remembers arriving here. Courfeyrac told him that her mother brought her when she was a toddler, no longer able to care for her due to financial reasons. In some ways, that's worse than being here because of abuse or something, because Cosette's mother _loved_ her. Enjolras can't imagine how hard it must be to give up a child you love so much.

He remembers his own mother with her bright blue eyes and pearly white smile, and now there are tears stinging his eyes. He blinks quickly, forcing himself not to cry.

When he looks up again, he notices that Marius is stood in the doorway gazing affectionately at Cosette, and he rolls his eyes. Honestly. Does that boy have a Cosette-radar or something?

“Hey, uh, Marius right?” Grantaire greets him, which startles Marius and he almost falls over.

“H-hi, Grantaire,” he stutters, and then Cosette's looking at him so obviously he pays no more attention to anything else.

Enjolras and Grantaire watch as the two pre-pubescents interact, like some sort of nature documentary. There's so much blushing and giggling that Enjolras thinks he might actually throw up. He says as much to Grantaire.

“God, man. I get you. I can't be dealing with all this soppy romance bullshit.”

“Ugh, disgusting,” Enjolras says, as Marius tucks a loose strand of Cosette's blonde hair behind her ear.

Grantaire reaches out as if he's going to mimic the action on Enjolras, but he stops when the boy jolts and brings his arms up to his chest defensively. He's breathing too quickly all of a sudden. Grantaire swallows, but says nothing.

“How's about-a pizza for lunch-a?” asks Jean in a terrible Italian accent, apparently not seeming to notice his daughter and Marius fawning over each other.

“Pizza sounds great!” responds Grantaire, and there's something so warm about the way he smiles. It's infectious, and Enjolras can't stop himself grinning too.

“You seem to have cheered up a lot,” he remarks, and Grantaire winks at him.

“I was acting,” the boy tells him, “It was all a trick, you see. A clever illusion to make everyone think I'm weak. This way they will underestimate my full abilities, and I'll be able to attack them without raising suspicion.”

Enjolras chortles. “Oh my God,” he says, “You are actually ridiculous.”

Lunch is ready within an hour. Apparently Grantaire had expected frozen food or something, because he looks at the homemade pizza like it's solid gold. He eats it with relish, and Enjolras can't help wondering how long it's been since he last ate.

“So, the new guy,” says Courfeyrac, jabbing him in the ribs with his elbow, “What's the deal with him?”

“His name's Grantaire and he's sat _right next to me_ so I'm pretty sure he can hear you, Courfeyrac,” Enjolras warns.

Grantaire doesn't seem offended, he just laughs. “Nice to meet you,” he says through a mouthful of pizza.

Courfeyrac reaches over and shakes his hand. Enjolras rolls his eyes.

“Who's the emo chick?” Grantaire whispers to him. Enjolras' lips form a tight line.

“That's Éponine,” he informs the newcomer, “She's pretty... protective. Don't do anything to upset her siblings or she might actually murder you.”

Grantaire nods. “I'll take that on board.”

“She's nice, though,” Combeferre adds with a smile, “Easy to get along with.”

Courfeyrac almost chokes on his pizza. “You must be joking because Éponine is the hardest person to get along with in the world. Like ever.”

“Maybe you just haven't tried hard enough.”

“That completely defies the point of-”

“Where's Bahorel?” asks Grantaire, ignoring the two bickering friends.

“Oh, he's probably gone out for lunch or something,” Enjolras replies, “He does that.”

“Sounds about right.”

“From the looks of it, he's taken Feuilly with him.”

“I'm sorry, who?”

Feuilly. How does one describe Feuilly? Enjolras has so much adoration for that boy.

“He's an orphan,” Enjolras begins, “Been here all his life. One of the best people I've ever met, to be honest. If you have a problem that you need sorting, Feuilly's your man. But he doesn't condone violence, so... Anyway, he's ginger.”

“And that's like, really something I needed to know,” Grantaire teases.

Enjolras huffs, half-irritated and half-amused. “Just in case you ever see a ginger person and wonder who they are,” he elaborates.

“Wonder that every day, man. That ginge over there, who are they? Where did they come from? Are all red-headed people secretly aliens?”

It takes all of Enjolras' effort to restrain a laugh.

“What about those three?”

Grantaire gestures over to the smiling bald kid, the tiny Korean boy and the girl with an afro.

“Bossuet, Joly, Musichetta,” Enjolras informs him, “Those three are pretty much inseparable.”

“The kids with Éponine?”

“Gavroche and Azelma, her brother and sister. Zelma's pretty shy, Gavroche is a little shit but everyone loves him.”

Grantaire lets out a laugh. “Yeah, and what about the other dude?”

Enjolras tenses. “Oh. That's Montparnasse,” he says, “You should like, stay away from him.”

The boy beside him raises an eyebrow. “Why's that?”

“He's... Trouble,” Enjolras responds.

“Like actual trouble or just a bit of a prick?” Grantaire questions.

The blond boy considers this for a moment. “Both.”

“He does look a bit... sketchy,” remarks Grantaire, “I'll make sure to add him to my list of people not to fuck with.”

“Who else is on the list?” Enjolras probes.

“My dad, some guys from my old school, Bahorel.”

“Bahorel?” Enjolras resists the urge to laugh, “Okay, he's a bit scary, but he's pretty harmless.”

“Have you seen that guy in a fight? Wouldn't wanna risk it, dude.”

“He's not gonna hurt someone like you, though.”

Grantaire looks up at the words 'someone like you'. “What d'you mean?”

“I mean, uh.” Enjolras is blushing. He can tell that he's blushing from the heat in his cheeks. He swallows. “Because you're nice, and Bahorel wouldn't hurt anyone who was nice. Not out of the boxing ring, anyway.”

The boy's grey eyes seem to light up, and quite frankly that makes Enjolras feel a bit giddy in a way he can't quite explain. Grantaire is, apparently, an enigma. An enigma capable of making his cheeks turn pink and his heart beat just this side of two fast, and Enjolras isn't sure how he feels about that.

When they finish pizza, Enjolras escorts back up to the second floor, but they go to Combeferre and Courfeyrac's room. Grantaire makes a comment about how much messier than Enjolras' room it is. Enjolras grins smugly at Combeferre, and the older boy scowls through his glasses. If looks could kill.

They all hang out for a while, sat on the floor in an almost-circle. At some point Enjolras starts talking about social justice and equal rights and that's when it goes to shit, which he really should have seen coming.

“Man, you're deluded,” Grantaire says, “You're not gonna change the world, you're just a kid.”

Combeferre can see Enjolras' anger increasing so he just sighs and replies, “The word you're looking for is 'delusional'.”

“How _dare_ you,” Enjolras almost spits, his words like venom that sting Grantaire instantly because he didn't expect him to take it this seriously, “I can and I _will_ change things for the better”

“Nah, you really can't.”

“Yes I can!”

“No you can't.”

Within moments the debate has become a full-on argument, and no matter how much Courfeyrac and Combeferre try to calm them both down, their attempts are utterly hopeless. Enjolras is yelling whilst Grantaire is just laughing, adding fuel to the other boy's fire.

“God, you're impossible!” Enjolras declares, “Are you a homophobe or something? Is that what your problem is?”

Grantaire scoffs. “Jesus, no. I consider myself very much in favour of the LGBT community since I'm, you know, bi.”

Enjolras blinks. That's not what he was expecting. “Oh, well,” he responds in a much calmer voice, “I'm aro-ace so like, sure.”

He must have imagined the look of disappointment on Grantaire's face.

“And me and Ferre are the gayest of the gay,” Courfeyrac chimes in, wrapping an arm around Combeferre's shoulder and beaming at Grantaire.

“Wow, is this actually a care home for queer people?” Grantaire jokes, but the other three seriously look like they're considering it.

“Actually,” says Combeferre, “I'm pretty sure a lot of us at the Musain are queer.”

“Apart from Marius,” says Courfeyrac, “Since he's like, the straightest person ever.”

“Wow, we should start like, a club.”

It's meant to be harmless sarcasm. Grantaire doesn't expect Enjolras to jump to his feet and clap his hands together like he's some cartoon character.

“Yes!” he says, “That's such a good idea, Grantaire. Thank you.”

“Wait, what? You're actually-”

“This is amazing,” Enjolras continues, ignoring him, “We can ask all the other kids to join, apart from Montparnasse and the Thénardiers maybe.”

“Yeah but, Gavroche is an exception,” says Courfeyrac, equally enthusiastic about the whole thing, “He's totally gonna be part of our little society.”

“What shall we call ourselves?” Combeferre questions.

“How about Les Amis?” Courfeyrac proposes.

“No, too simple. Wait, what about Les Amis de l'ABC? Our first names are Alexandre, 'Bastien and Clément so it's like... A pun.”

“Oh my God,” says Enjolras, “This is wonderful.”

“Oh my God,” says Grantaire, mimicking him, “You three are nerds.”

“Loveable nerds,” Courfeyrac corrects him. It's hard to disagree with Courfeyrac, since he's the living incarnation of a rainbow.

“We should have like, a meeting,” suggests Combeferre, “I'll go and rally the troops.”

Grantaire blinks, incredulous, as the boy hurries out of the room. “Are you guys for real?” he enquires.

“You're the one who suggested it,” Enjolras replies, rather sheepishly.

“It's called sarcasm,” Grantaire sighs, putting his head in his hands, “Don't take everything so literally, dude.”

“Yeah, well, it's a good idea so I'm sticking with it.”

“And Les Amis de l'ABC is the best name _ever_!” Courfeyrac giggles, “Jehan and Marius are gonna love this so much.”

“Everyone's going to love it,” says Enjolras, grinning, “Joly and Bossuet and Bahorel and Feuilly and-”

“Not Grantaire,” interrupts Grantaire, who looks so pissed off it's unbelievable.

“Well, it's not like you'll be here for much longer, is it?”

Enjolras doesn't _mean_ to snap at him but somehow he can't stop himself. The boy looks hurt, like he had earlier in Javert's office. The expression makes him feel guilty but he is, of course, too obstinate to apologise.

“However long you're here,” Courfeyrac says, “We'll do anything in our power to make you feel at home.”

“I don't want to feel like I'm at home, to be perfectly honest,” Grantaire mutters.

Enjolras sighs. He knows that feeling all to well; the feeling of dread when you walk through your own front door, to the family home you've lived in since you were born. It's not a nice feeling.

“Troops rallied!” Combeferre declares, suddenly bursting through the door (which he has every right to do since it's his room but, like, Enjolras would have appreciated some warning).

“Jesus,” he mumbles, recovering from the initial shock.

“We're having a meeting tomorrow after lunch in the living room, just so you know,” Combeferre announces, “Everyone seems to like the idea. Except Bahorel and Feuilly who are like, missing in action.”

“Combeferre, honey,” says Courfeyrac, “There's only so far these war similes can go.”

“Metaphors,” Combeferre mutters under his breath, almost bitterly.

“Whatever, I'm bad at words.”

“I'm bad at maths,” says Grantaire, “We can be bad at things together.”

“We need to make badges,” Courfeyrac contemplates.

Enjolras clicks his fingers (because that's totally a thing people do in his mind). “Badges! Yes! Good plan.”

“Oh God, as if this whole queer clique couldn't get any worse,” Grantaire sighs.

“We're not a clique, we're a society.”

“Technically we haven't even assembled yet,” Combeferre reminds him.

“Assembled?” Grantaire probes, “What are you, the fucking Avengers?”

“Dibs on Iron Man,” Courfeyrac says.

“I'm Hulk,” says Combeferre, “Enjolras can be Captain America.”

Enjolras huffs. “I hate America. I'm Captain France.”

Grantaire can't contain his laughter. “That's... Oh my gosh, that's the most hilarious thing anyone's ever said,” he sniggers, “But for the record, I'm totally Black Widow.”

As much as they feel the need to, nobody asks any questions about his choice of Avenger.

“Black Widow's fucking awesome who wouldn't wanna be Black Widow,” Grantaire rambles to himself, “Plus she has boobs so like, added bonus.”

Again, nobody asks.

“Don't mean to alarm you or anything,” says Combeferre, “But it's like, nearly ten o'clock.”

“The fuck? How did that happen?” Grantaire seems genuinely concerned about what time it is, “Time flies, I guess.”

“In case you didn't know,” Enjolras says to him, “Ten o'clock is when we have to go to our rooms, so we should probably get going.”

“Right,” says Grantaire, rolling his eyes, “And I suppose lights out is at like, half past?”

Enjolras nods. Grantaire raises his eyebrows, not expecting that answer. “That's fucking stupid for a Saturday night but... Okay.”

When they get to Enjolras' – no, Enjolras _and Grantaire's_ room – there's a suitcase on the camp bed. Grantaire rushes over to it and pretends to kiss it.

“Oh, my true love! Finally I can change into some comfortable clothes!”

Enjolras grins. “You know, when I first saw you I thought you'd be some sort of douchebag,” he confesses.

Grantaire shrugs nonchalantly. “I am a douchebag,” he says, “But like, a friendly one.”

He goes to the bathroom to get changed without even asking, which Enjolras decides he will be eternally grateful for. It makes things so much less uncomfortable if they get changed in separate rooms. It's surprisingly easy to settle into bed, even with Grantaire on the other side of the room. For some reason Enjolras feels almost as comfortable with this new boy as he does with Combeferre and Courfeyrac, his best friends of ten years, and that in itself if disconcerting.

“Uh, I guess this is goodnight, then,” Grantaire says, when the lights are out and they're both in total darkness.

“Yeah. Goodnight Grantaire.”

“Goodnight Enjolras.”

Somehow, Enjolras manages to drift off to sleep in minutes, compared to the hours of tossing and turning in the sheets it usually takes him.

 

 

 


	2. Chapter II

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Warning for mentions of child abuse, including sexual abuse; references to self-harm; language

_Pinned to the bed... Can't move... Hands touching... Please stop, make it stop... Try to scream... Make it stop, got to make it stop... Hands touching, touching, touching..._

Enjolras wakes with a start. His heart is racing. He can't get the images from the dream out of his mind; strong hands pinning him down, the hot breath on his neck... He can't breathe and he's so, so scared...

“Hey! Enjolras, it's okay!”

He vaguely recognises the voice but he can't tell who it is and that just makes him panic more. His breathing is erratic and the noise around him is muffled.

“Got to breathe...” he hears the voice say, “In and out... Nose... Mouth... Deep breaths...”

He doesn't hear all of what the voice is saying, but he understands that he needs to breathe slowly; in through his nose and out through his mouth, he remembers Combeferre telling him to do that. After what seems like an agonisingly long time, his breathing has calmed to an almost normal rhythm. He can see a boy sat on a bed opposite his own, with scruffy dark hair and worry in his grey eyes.

 _Grantaire. It's just Grantaire._ Enjolras lets out a sigh of relief.

He realises now that he's crying. Tears are streaming down his cheeks and he's clutching his knees tightly as he rocks back and forth. Grantaire walks over to him and tentatively reaches out his hand, as if asking for permission to touch. Enjolras nods and the boy gently rubs his back. It's remarkably soothing.

“I... Sorry,” Enjolras sniffles, and Grantaire just sighs, “I-I didn't mean to wake you.”

“It's fine, dude,” says Grantaire, still sounding very concerned, “I heard you cry out and then all of a sudden you were having a panic attack, I wasn't gonna just sit there and do nothing, no matter what you told me yesterday.”

Enjolras rubs his eyes with his fingers. “How did you know what to do?” he asks.

“It's not exactly hard to know how to breathe,” the boy next to him replies, “Anyway, I get them all the time so it's something I'm used to. Had one yesterday, actually. You know when I was all puffy eyed in Javert's office? Yeah, panic attack, man. They suck.”

In some ways Enjolras is thankful that Grantaire is so verbose (read: never shuts up) because it means he doesn't have to talk as much.

“They're the suckiest,” Enjolras whispers. He hears Grantaire laugh, but it's forced and lacking humour.

“Yeah, dude. The suckiest.” Grantaire lets out a sigh, “You did well, though. Really well. Do you get these often?”

Enjolras nods weakly. “Most nights,” he says.

“We should go back to sleep.”

“Yeah.”

Enjolras doesn't manage to get to sleep for what seems like hours, the dream still vivid in his mind. Every time he closes his eyes he sees it all over again. He must have fallen asleep at some point, though, because he wakes up and there's light pouring through the thin curtains. He glances over at the clock on the wall and sees that it's five past seven. With a sigh, he gets out of bed and makes his way to the other side of the room. He shakes Grantaire awake, and the other boy groans with frustration.

“Fuck off,” Grantaire murmurs, and when Enjolras keeps shaking him he repeats himself, “ _Fuck off._ Dude, seriously.”

Enjolras smiles a little. “Morning to you too, sleepyhead.”

Grantaire rolls his eyes. “Whatever,” he says, “What time is it?

“Like, just past seven o'clock. So we better get ready.”

“What? Are you insane? It's seven o'clock.”

“Yeah,” Enjolras responds, looking confused, “We have breakfast at half past.”

“What the fuck, man?” Grantaire seems genuinely angry, “Breakfast at fucking half past seven on a Sunday morning? God, this place is fucked up. I'm gonna make complaints.”

Breakfast is, as usual, chaos. Enjolras has to tell Grantaire that everyone's expected to prepare their own cereal or toast, that you're allowed one glass of juice and one hot drink, that you're only allowed second helpings when everybody's finished. Grantaire looks incredulous the whole time he's explaining.

“Is this place actually a prison?” he inquires, pouring milk into his bowl.

“Are you really putting the milk in _before_ the cereal?” Enjolras asks, which earns him a nudge in the ribs.

“Don't judge my life choices, man,” says Grantaire, “But seriously, is this place a prison for messed up kids? Because that's what it feels like.”

“That's one way of putting it.”

They sit with Combeferre and Courfeyrac at the table, discussing the founding of Les Amis de l'ABC and their first meeting today. The three best friends seem ridiculously excited about the whole thing, whilst Grantaire just rocks back in his chair and stares out of a window.

“'Sup, R,” someone says from behind them, which prompts Grantaire to turn around, then Enjolras, then the other two.

“Hey Bahorel,” Grantaire replies, smiling broadly, “Didn't see you yesterday. What were you doing?”

Bahorel winks. “Out with my girlfriend,” he tells them, rather smugly.

“Oh, the imaginary one?” says Ferre, “The one who we've never met?”

“Like, ever,” adds Courfeyrac.

“Aw, guys, she's not imaginary,” Bahorel insists, frowning, “She'd be offended if she heard you say that.”

“Except she's not going to hear us say that,” responds Enjolras, deadpan, “Because she's not real.”

“Where was Feuilly yesterday?” Combeferre questions.

“Uh, he was out too, man,” Bahorel says,“With his like, dog.”

“Feuilly doesn't have a dog.”

“He got a job as a... Dog babysitter thing.”

“When did that happen?”

“I... I dunno, man! Stop interrogating me!” At this point Bahorel seems rather flustered.

The four younger boys burst into giggles. Bahorel rolls his eyes and walks away, muttering under his breath about 'kids these days' and 'when I was your age'.

“I bet Bahorel and Feuilly were like, getting stoned,” says Courfeyrac.

“That would explain the mystery of the invisible girlfriend,” says Combeferre, wiping the lens of his glasses with his sleeve.

“Bahorel's not a stoner,” Grantaire remarks, and when they all turn to look at him he shrugs and says, “We drink but that's as far as it goes, I promise.”

“We?” Enjolras questions, his voice slightly higher than it should be, “You mean _you_ drink?”

“Oh God, man,” replies Grantaire, “Don't tell me you're gonna judge me for drinking. Literally all kid my age drink.” He looks at Combeferre, then at Enjolras, then at Courfeyrac, then back at Enjolras, and blinks, “Well, like, the cool ones.”

“Drinking isn't cool,” Enjolras says, a hint of annoyance in his voice, “You could do serious damage to your liver or-”

“Jesus, don't give me a lecture. It's not like I'm an alcoholic, I only drink at parties and shit.”

Nobody asks about the 'and shit'.

“Leave him alone, Enji,” says Courf, “Let the boy _live_.”

“You can't call me a boy, I'm older than you,” replies Grantaire.

“No way! I am totally older than you!”

They get into a debate about birthdays whilst Enjolras sighs and slumps down in his chair. Combeferre leans across the table and smiles at him, fondly but with that hint of scrutiny that drives Enjolras up the wall.

“Did you sleep okay?” his friend whispers.

Enjolras shrugs. “Well enough,” he replies. Combeferre already knows he doesn't sleep well most nights, anyway. There's no point getting into an unnecessary conversation about it.

“Even with Grantaire in the room?” Ferre probes.

“I mean, it didn't make things any easier,” Enjolras confesses, “But it didn't make things harder either.”

“That's good. Maybe it'll be good for you, sharing a room with him.”

“Yeah, well, he's not staying for long, is he?”

They hear the door open abruptly and look up to see Javert, stoic and poised as ever. The man surveys the table from one end to the other, as if counting that everyone's there. When he's satisfied, he clears his throat.

“Good morning,” he says.

The children mutter a collectively half-hearted “morning” in response.

“I came to let you know,” Javert continues, “That I have heard reports of rule-breaking, and I am not impressed, though I will not name any of the culprits as of yet,” He glares at Éponine at Montparnasse pointedly, then turns to Grantaire, “Rémy, I need to speak to you in my office once you have finished your breakfast. Oh, and Alexandre,” He looks over at Enjolras disapprovingly as the boy rolls his eyes, “Remember that you're on wash duty.”

“Not fair,” the blond mumbles. He could almost swear that through the corner of his eye he sees Grantaire grinning at him, but it might be his imagination.

“Jean will not be here today,” says Javert, his tone filled with a bitterness that Enjolras can't justify considering Jean is an actual saint, “So it's up to you to make your own lunch. I'm sure you can manage that, at least. Any questions?”

Silence.

“Good. Thank you for your time.”

He leaves, and the children let out a joint sigh of relief. All except Marius, who's staring sadly at the floor, and Éponine, who's staring sadly at Marius.

“What's the deal with those two?” Grantaire inquires. Enjolras starts at his voice.

“Oh, Marius is in love with Jean's daughter, Éponine is in love with Marius,” he explains.

“They seem a bit young to be in love,” says Grantaire, shrugging, “But whatever. I think I'm going to talk to Éponine.”

“ _What_?” Enjolras asks, incredulous, “Why?”

“She seems cool. She might wanna hang out with me something.”

“Doubt it. Well, be careful. She's terrifying when she's angry.”

“Thanks for the advice,” Grantaire says, smirking, “But I think I can handle a twelve-year-old girl.”

The boy is gone before Enjolras has a chance to tell him that Éponine is actually fourteen. If anything, he would have thought she looks older than that. Her raven hair is long with a choppy fringe and she wears multi-coloured extensions, her deep brown eyes always have a glint of hostility in them, she always wears black and occasionally dark purples or reds. Then there's her sister, only a year younger though the difference seems vast: Éponine in her almost gothic clothing next to Azelma in her pastels and lace seems a lot older. Enjolras really isn't sure what to make of the Thénardier sisters, but he knows Gavroche well enough to presume that his sisters aren't that bad.

Surprisingly, Grantaire seems to be getting on well with Éponine already. In fact, they're _laughing._ The sight makes Enjolras smile. But he frowns when he sees that Grantaire is also talking to Montparnasse, who he had specifically warned him not to go near. There's something about the way Montparnasse puts his hand on Grantaire's shoulder and grins at him like they're lifelong friends that makes Enjolras feel impossibly jealous.

“Enj?” he hears Combeferre's questioning voice and he sighs.

“Fine,” he replies, “I'm fine.”

“You don't look fine,” Combeferre remarks.

“You're red as a tomato,” Courfeyrac chimes in, so cheerfully that Enjolras kind of wants to hit him.

“Can we just go back upstairs?” Enjolras asks them, sounding harsher than he intended, “I'm fed up of sitting around here.”

“Sure,” says Combeferre, “But you have to do the washing up first.”

Enjolras' idea of washing up is dunking each bowl in the water and then leaving it on the kitchen counter, drenched and barely clean. Combeferre keeps shooting him disapproving glances but he doesn't attempt to help. At one point, Joly and Bossuet come back into the kitchen, and Enjolras hears a loud gasp from Joly that almost makes him drop the glass he was holding.

“What are you _doing_?” Joly asks, sounding truly alarmed, “That's not how you wash dishes! Here, let me do it.”

So by some lovely twist of fate Enjolras no longer has to do the washing up, although he hears the sound of smashing as Bossuet drops a bowl and knows that he'll get blamed for it. He clenches his jaw and walks out of the kitchen, Combeferre and Courfeyrac on either side of him.

As usual, they spend their time in Courf and Ferre's room (although it's not exactly the most relaxing place to be when Courfeyrac is singing show-tunes and Combeferre is reading a biology textbook out loud). Enjolras sits on the windowsill reading his own book – a biography on Robespierre, which Courfeyrac teased him about for days – but he finds that he can't concentrate.

_Grantaire should be with Javert_ , he thinks. The thought makes him angry. Javert's a douche and nobody should have to endure speaking to him.

“I'm going for a walk,” he says. Neither of his friends notice when he leaves.

He ends up in the garden, where he finds Feuilly and Jehan sat together under the shade of a tree. Feuilly is making paper fans and Jehan is making daisy chains. On the yard, Bahorel, Bossuet, Gavroche and Musichetta are playing football, whilst Joly cheers them on. Enjolras feels sorry for that kid sometimes. It feels wrong for a teenager to have to use a cane.

Enjolras takes a seat under the tree and Feuilly reaches out to ruffle his hair. Normally he'd huff in annoyance but, well, it's Feuilly.

“How are you, Enjo?” the redhead asks him, absentmindedly folding a piece of orange paper.

“Good, thanks,” Enjolras replies. Neither of the boys seem to catch onto the fact that it's not entirely convincing.

“Jehan's been telling me about this meeting you're having,” says Feuilly, “What sort of stuff are you guys gonna be talking about?”

The blond contemplates this for a moment. “We're going to discuss all the problems with the care home,” he tells his friend, “Maybe share some of our bad experiences, and talk about issues that are close to us.”

“Queer rights?” questions Feuilly.

“Queer rights,” Enjolras confirms, “And racism, and sexism, and-”

“I get it. You want to start a political activist group, right? Totally understandable and not exactly surprising for you, Enjolras.”

He doesn't know whether that's a compliment or not, but since the words come from Feuilly they make Enjolras giggle, and Jehan gives him an odd look.

“You're so obvious,” the younger boy says.

Enjolras raises an eyebrow. “What do you mean?”

“You _obviously_ have a crush on Feuilly.”

“Do not! I'm-”

“Asexual aromantic, yeah, we know,” Jehan sighs, then he blows a strand of strawberry blond hair away from his eyes, “You have a platonic crush on him, then.”

“But we're already friends,” Enjolras pauses and glances over at Feuilly, “Right?”

“Right.”

They sit in silence for a moment, watching the group playing football. At one point Bossuet kicks the ball at them and it almost hits Jehan in the face. The older boy apologises profusely and looks utterly mortified, despite the fact that Jehan is laughing hysterically. They stay like this, relaxing in the garden, until Enjolras spots a boy with scruffy hair and a grey hoodie shuffling through the grass. He leaps to his feet and rushes to meet him.

“Grantaire!” he greets, smiling a little, “Are you okay? What did Javert have to say to you?”

The other boy blinks. “Oh,” he says, “Not much. He just wanted to talk to me about my new school, since I start tomorrow.”

“We're in the same year, right?” Enjolras asks, and Grantaire nods, “Maybe we'll be in the same classes.”

Grantaire all but scoffs and when Enjolras tilts his head to one side, confused, he shakes his head and sighs. “I doubt it,” he says, running a hand through his disheveled brown curls, “I mean, you seem pretty smart. I'm... I'm not good at anything.”

“There must be _something_ ,” Enjolras counters.

The boy shrugs. “My drawing's alright,” he remarks, “That's about it-”

“Surely that's not the only thing,” Enjolras blurts out, suddenly feeling very opposed to Grantaire's cynicism, “What else? Do you play sports? Do you write? Are you good at maths?”

The last question makes Grantaire laugh. “I'm too lazy to play sports, and I'm not very good with words so writing isn't my best skill,” he babbles, “As for maths, well, let's just say we're not on good terms.”

“There has to be something else,” the blond insists, “What else can you do?”

Grantaire looks nervous. He digs the heel of his shoe into the ground and wrings his hands together awkwardly. “I, uh, I can play the guitar?” he offers, “But I don't actually own one so, you know... Um, I'm sorta good at speaking Spanish, but that's only because I do it at school...”

“See, you _are_ good at things,” Enjolras asserts, smiling quite smugly, “What else?”

“Jesus, leave me alone...” Grantaire mutters. He shoots Enjolras a look of irritation.

“But-”

“But nothing, Enjolras. Are you _trying_ to make me feel bad about myself? Because if you are, it's working, Apollo.”

“I...” Enjolras hesitates and looks at Grantaire, bewildered, “Apollo?”

The boy's expression turns from one of annoyance to embarrassment, almost _fear_ , and Enjolras can see his cheeks reddening. “I-It doesn't matter,” he stammers, “You must have misheard me.”

“Grantaire, I-”

“Got to go!”

He's rushing away before Enjolras can do anything about it, and the blond boy is left confused. He rubs his temples and inhales deeply, his thoughts racing as he tries to make sense of what just happened. Hearing footsteps, he quickly turns around to see Feuilly and Jehan smiling at him (at least he presumes they're trying to smile, even if it looks more like a grimace).

“Did you two argue?” Jehan inquires.

Enjolras lets out a sigh. “Sort of, it's complicated,” he explains, then he pauses, “He called me 'Apollo'. Why would he call me that? I don't understand.”

Feuilly and Jehan glance at each other for a moment. Enjolras frowns.

“What is it?” he probes.

“It's nothing, Enjo,” Feuilly assures him, putting a hand on his shoulder and smiling, “I think that maybe you should try to be nicer to Grantaire, though.”

“What? Why are you taking _his_ side? You don't even know him.”

“Yeah, but Rel's filled me in on the details and I think you should be careful.”

_Be careful._ Enjolras remembers when he first came to the Musain, remembers overhearing Jean and Javert talking to the rest of the kids. “Be careful what you say to him,” they had said, “Be careful how you act around him, don't touch him unless you have permission.” They talked about him like he was some delicate flower, and Enjolras  _hated_ it. He still does. He hates being treated differently because he has some issues, hates being fawned over because he's damaged.  _Damaged._ It makes him sound like a vase that's been dropped and shattered into a thousand pieces, stuck back together with glue but never the same as it was before. Never whole again, always broken. Never able to heal.

He remembers Javert giving him statistics, telling him “it's not as uncommon as you might think” and “lots of people go through the same thing as you” as if that's supposed to help. Like knowing that he's not the only boy in the world to go through this is going to make him feel  _so much better._

He wonders what Grantaire has gone through exactly, if Bahorel's been telling people to go easy on him. The physical abuse is obvious, and from what the boy himself has said there's emotional abuse too. Enjolras can't help his curiosity, or maybe he's just inquisitive out of concern.

Javert calls them in for lunch, and Enjolras is brought out of his haze.

He sits with Ferre and Courf, but Grantaire is sat with Éponine and Montparnasse. For some reason Enjolras feels a bit disappointed, though it's not exactly surprising since Grantaire is his polar opposite and probably has a lot more in common with those two.

The sandwiches they made are awful - stale bread and lumpy jam – and Enjolras is reminded how thankful he is for Jean's cooking.

“You know what's happening now, right?” Combeferre asks eagerly. Nobody answers him. “Come _on_ , guys! It's our first Les Amis de l'ABC meeting.”

“You mean the Avengers are assembling,” Courfeyrac responds, grinning from ear to ear, “We're gonna save the world, right Cap?”

Enjolras can't help smiling a little. “Damn right we are, Stark."

“Banner reporting for Avengers duty,” says Combeferre, twiddling his glasses, “Can we be the Fellowship too, though?”

“Yes!” Courf practically squeals, “I'm Merry. Or Pippin. Or both.”

“You can be all the hobbits, short stuff. I'm Gandalf, obviously.”

“And Enjolras is Legolas, because he's pretty and blond.”

“Thanks Courf,” Enjolras chuckles.

“Plus your name rhymes with his,” Courfeyrac adds.

“No they don't. How does 'Enjolras' rhyme with 'Legolas'?”

“Technically it does,” says Combeferre.

“You three are total nerds,” says a voice from behind them. They all turn around and see Gavroche grinning smugly at them, arms folded.

“Gavroche, need I remind you that you're practically addicted to Pokémon?” Combeferre challenges him, “If that doesn't make you a nerd, I don't know what does.”

“Pokémon's awesome!” Gavroche insists, “And my Froakie just evolved so my team is even stronger, and-”

“How did you even get your hands on a 3DS?” inquires Enjolras, “There's no way you bought it yourself.”

The boy shrugs and puts his hands in the pockets of his baseball jacket (which has a green 'G' on it and is Gavroche's signature item of clothing, like Enjolras' red Converse and Courfeyrac's shutter shades). “Parnasse got it for me,” he says, and the three older boys share a look of suspicion.

“Are you coming to the meeting, chuck?” Courfeyrac asks.

“Yeah, but I'm not gonna talk,” Gavroche replies, “It'll be totally boring so I'm just gonna play games instead.”

“Pokémon?” Enjolras tries.

“Mystery dungeon,” affirms Gavroche, “That game is rad.”

Once lunch is well and truly over, they 'assemble' in the living room to hold the 'council of Enjolras' (courtesy of Combeferre). Enjolras tries to assure them that it's a mutual thing and everyone is equal, but his friends take no notice and say that their pun is worth sacrificing democracy for.

Enjolras spends a few minutes speaking about homophobia and racism, but after a while he can tell there's a certain awkwardness lingering in the room. He clears his throat and asks if anyone else wants to say anything. It's Joly who decides to speak up, leaning on his cane as he rises from where he's sat. Bossuet puts a hand on his back, steadying him.

“These topics are great and all,” he says, “I mean, I experience a lot of racist and homophobic language myself, so it's very close to my heart. But I think we should talk about disabilities too.”

Then it's Jehan who stands up. His face is an odd shade of pink (salmon, Courfeyrac would probably call it) and he looks incredibly anxious, but it's clear that he wants to get his opinion across. “I-I agree with Joly,” he stutters, “We should talk about other things, too. Not that those subjects aren't important, Enjolras, but I think we need to focus on a wider range of topics.”

“Child abuse,” Éponine adds, not bothering to rise from where she's sat in an armchair, black boots on the coffee table, “We should talk about that, since it affects so many of us here.”

There's silence for a moment, then Combeferre sighs.

“That's rather a sensitive topic, though,” he responds, “Some of us-”

“Are too fucked up to talk about it without breaking down,” Grantaire interrupts. All eyes turn to him, and Enjolras' chest feels tight when he sees the look of contempt in his eyes. “You know, this meeting is fucking ridiculous. We're not even _doing_ anything, we've just been listening to Enjolras rant about social justice for the past ten minutes.”

“Maybe if you bothered to contribute something useful,” Enjolras snaps at him, “We wouldn't be having that problem.”

“Don't blame it on me, dude. I get the feeling that most people here aren't even listening to what you have to say.”

Bossuet and Musichetta are whispering to each other. Gavroche is on his games console. Bahorel and Feuilly are on their phones. Even Courfeyrac seems indifferent, as he gazes out of the window with a distant expression. Half of the room doesn't seem to be paying attention, and Enjolras clenches his fists tightly at the thought.

“This is our first meeting,” he hisses at Grantaire, “It's bound to be a bit uncomfortable.”

“There's uncomfortable and there's pointless,” the boy replies, “There's not going to be any more meetings, anyway. This is totally pathetic. Nobody's gonna want to do this again.”

“Not if you force your cynicism upon them, they won't!” Enjolras practically yells, “Why are you even here? You clearly don't believe in anything I have to say.”

“Enjolras, calm down,” says Combeferre in a warning tone.

“Your opinions mean nothing,” retorts Grantaire, ignoring Combeferre, “You can't change anything.”

“Just watch me.”

“You're a _kid._ You can't do _anything_.”

“At least I'm trying! Unlike you, you're a good-for-nothing idiot and-”

“ _Enjolras_ ,” Combeferre makes it quite clear from his voice that he's not amused, “Enough of this.”

Enjolras is about to say something but his friend shushes him.

“That,” he says, “Was uncalled for.”

Looking across the room, Enjolras notices that Grantaire has slumped back down into his chair and is resting his chin on his fist glumly. His head tells him that Grantaire deserves it, but his heart tells him otherwise, and he can't get rid of the pang of guilt in his chest.

“I'm sorry,” he mumbles weakly.

“Don't apologise!” Gavroche chimes in, and Enjolras regards the child with a puzzled expression, “That was epic, like a real life gym battle. It'd be even more awesome if you were actually fighting with Pokémon but hey, beggars can't be choosers.”

Enjolras' mouth twitches into a smile. He turns back to look at Grantaire. The boy seems unaffected by Gavroche's words; there's not even a hint of emotion on his face. Enjolras' smile fades.

“Grantaire, I'm sorry,” he asserts, “I didn't mean to upset you.”

“You haven't fucking upset me,” Grantaire mutters, “You just told me what I needed to hear. I _told_ you I wasn't good at anything and you've finally realised that it's true, well fucking done.”

“Grantaire, I...”

“Leave it, Apollo. I'm so fucking tired of this right now, tired of everything. I'm going to my room.”

_ Our room,  _ Enjolras corrects him in his mind, and the thought makes him feel sick.

He goes to Javert's office and knocks gently on the door a few times. When Javert finally calls him in and notices who it is, he narrows his eyes at him.

“What do you want, Alexandre?” he queries irritably, then he clears his throat and corrects himself, “How may I help you?”

“Just a question,” Enjolras begins, “How long do you reckon Grantaire will be here for?”

“Oh, Rémy? He's here indefinitely, why do you ask?”

Enjolras shakes his head and starts making his way out of the office. “Never mind. Thanks for your time.”

_ Indefinitely.  _ His whole body is trembling. He feels his breath getting fast and shaky. Suddenly his legs don't work anymore and he collapses onto the floor, pressed up against the wall. He embraces his knees and sobs into the fabric of his trousers.

He doesn't know how long he stays like that, but it's Courfeyrac who eventually finds him and calms him down. His friend holds him tightly and plants gentle kisses to his hair, actions that make Enjolras feel simultaneously better and worse. He appreciates the affection, he really does. He really  _ wants _ to be able to let his friends hold him and comfort him without feeling like they're going to hurt him, because that's just  _ stupid _ . He just can't help the fear that surges through him when someone holds him so tightly like this, when they take away all his control and ability to escape.

“I'm sorry, Courf,” he sniffles, once he's finally calm enough to speak.

“Hey, don't be sorry, it's not your fault,” assures Courfeyrac.

“I made Grantaire sad.”

“You made each other sad,” Courf corrects him, “Besides, Grantaire isn't the one having a panic attack in the hallway. I'm pretty sure he's fine.”

Enjolras hopes that's the case.

When he gets the courage to go up to his room and confront Grantaire, the boy is nowhere to be seen. He looks around for him agitatedly, worried in case he's done something reckless like run away. He lets out a sigh of relief when Grantaire emerges from the bathroom, but his concern is brought back when he notices Grantaire's paler than usual skin, his terrifyingly blank expression, his arms stiff at his sides.

“Taire?” he questions. The abbreviation isn't intentional; there's a catch in his throat and the first syllable is lost.

“I'm fine,” Grantaire says. He doesn't sound upset, but to be honest he doesn't sound _anything_. Just empty and monotonous.

“Are you sure?” Enjolras presses, “I didn't mean to-”

“What part of fine don't you understand?” questions Grantaire, but he couldn't sound less hostile if he tried, “It's cool, man. I'm fine.”

He tries to walk away but Enjolras grabs his arm, causing the boy to let out a yelp of what Enjolras presumes is pain.

“Oh, I'm sorry! Did I hurt you?”

Grantaire holds his arm to his chest, grimacing. “I'm fine,” he says through gritted teeth, “Please leave me alone.”

He scurries away and this time Enjolras doesn't try to stop him.  _ He probably still has bruises on his arm from when his father hurt him,  _ he thinks with a sigh. He vividly remembers the days of having bruised wrists. The teachers had called home to inquire about it, and his father had laughed into the phone and made an excuse about Enjolras always getting into fights with the boy next door. That boy, if Enjolras remembers correctly, had been in hospital with leukaemia at the time.

Dinner is blissfully uneventful, something that Enjolras is thankful for. He's worn out and fed up. When Bahorel and Feuilly try to rope him into pranking Marius, he shakes his head and says he's had enough drama for one day.

Unsurprisingly he spends the evening with his two best friends, and both of them seem very concerned about him. He presumes that Combeferre has been informed of the incident in the hallway, since the boy keeps asking him whether he's okay and whether he needs anything.

It's extremely tense and awkward when it's time to go to bed. Enjolras rolls around in his sheets, whilst Grantaire stares vacantly up at the ceiling. The lights are still on but there's absolute silence.

“You keep calling me Apollo,” Enjolras muses. He doesn't realise he's spoken the thought aloud until Grantaire chuckles softly.

“God of the sun, amongst other things,” Grantaire mutters, “Wise and calm, but quick to anger. Considered to be the most beautiful male God; a young man with golden curls, or sometimes rays of the sun surrounding his head.”

Enjolras swallows. “Why are you comparing me to him?” he queries, his heart beating quicker than usual.

“Enjolras, have you _seen_ yourself? You're gorgeous. When I first saw you I thought you must be an angel.”

“Oh.”

“We should probably get some sleep.”

“Yeah.”

“Night, Apollo.”

“Goodnight, Grantaire.”

Enjolras finds that, no matter how hard he tries, he can't fall asleep.

 


	3. Chapter III

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mild description of childhood sexual abuse and self-harm, please don't read if this could trigger you!

_You're gorgeous, you're gorgeous, you're gorgeous..._

The words are flying around his head, and at some point he fades into sleep and the voice stops being Grantaire's.

_You're beautiful, Alexandre..._

He jerks a little in his sleep.

_Don't struggle, I'm not going to hurt you..._

“No,” he murmurs into his pillow, “No, no...”

_Relax, you'll enjoy it..._

Enjolras wakes and sits up abruptly, eyes wide and heart pounding. His breathing is quick but as far as he can tell he's not hyperventilating, which is a good thing. His father's words won't leave him alone – not when he covers his ears, not when he buries his face into the pillow, not even when he starts sobbing and begging for him to go away.

“Enjolras?” he hears a voice (a different voice, it's softer and kinder and it's _Grantaire's_ ), “Enjolras, it's okay, there's nobody there. Nobody's going to hurt you.”

His voice keeps getting louder and Enjolras can sense how close Grantaire is, how terrifyingly close...

“Don't touch me,” he whimpers, “Please, go away, leave me alone.”

There's silence for a moment. Then, “If that's what you want,” Grantaire says, sighing quietly, “But I'm worried about you. Maybe I should get Combe-”

“No! Please. Don't. Just go back to bed, I'm fine.”

He's not fine. His father's words are reverberating around his mind, like they're trapped in his brain. _You'll enjoy it._ Enjolras shudders. The first time his father had said that had been the first time he screamed; the first time he spent the whole night awake, crying into his pillow. Before then it had just been touches here and there – it made him feel uncomfortable, but not _scared_ – and, yes, he had made Enjolras _do_ things but it had never _hurt,_ never made him wish he was dead to escape the pain.

His childhood was really fucked up, he thinks, as he squeezes his eyes shut and tries to block out his father's voice.

Time passes excruciatingly slowly. At some point he drifts off to sleep again, then the nightmares startle him awake. When he falls asleep for the third time, it's not his dreams that wake him. There's a quiet voice telling him that it's morning and he realises that it'sjust Grantaire.

“We have school today, right?” Grantaire queries with a yawn.

Enjolras lets out a groan as he rubs his temples with his index fingers. “We do, thanks for the reminder.”

“Shit, man,” says his roommate, sounding equally pissed off about the situation, “I'm totally not up for this. Maybe I should just pull a sickie.”

“Javert never lets people stay off school,” Enjolras tells him, “Unless they're dying of consumption, or something.”

“This isn't the nineteenth century,” the other boy mutters.

“There have been many occasions,” the blond continues, ignoring Grantaire, “When Joly has had literal panic attacks and has been sobbing because he thinks he's seriously ill, and Javert has still made him go to school.”

“Dude, that's awful...”

“Of course, Joly has only ever had colds and occasionally the flu, but that's not the point,” says Enjolras with a sigh, “Javert doesn't even let him stay off when his knee is hurting.”

“What's up with his knee?” Grantaire asks, “Like I've seen his cane, obviously, but what does he need it for?”

“Some sort of chronic pain condition, I'm not sure exactly."

“Surely Javert forcing him to go to school when he's in pain is child abuse or something.”

“My thoughts exactly,” Enjolras replies, smiling weakly, “Basically, Javert doesn't give a shit about the children here.”

“Are there any other disabled kids?” Grantaire inquires, tilting his head to one side inquisitively, “Or any kids with illnesses or disorders or whatever else?”

“Uh, Ferre's asthmatic and Feuilly's hard of hearing. Joly and Marius have anxiety. I think Azelma has selective mutism, or maybe she never speaks to me because she just doesn't _like_ me.”

“Oh, please,” Grantaire all but scoffs, “Who couldn't like you? You're perfect.”

Enjolras blinks, feeling his heart rate increase and his cheeks burning. “I... Don't really know how to respond to that.”

Grantaire looks down at the floor sheepishly and nibbles his bottom lip. “Sorry,” he murmurs.

“It's fine. We should get changed, or we're going to be late for school.”

Once they're changed and Grantaire's finished his breakfast (Enjolras doesn't eat; Grantaire doesn't comment) they walk out onto the gravel driveway, backpacks slung over their shoulders. Grantaire is wearing a muted green hoodie and a maroon beanie today, which Enjolras supposes is an improvement to the outfit he's worn for the previous two days, but it's still almost identical. The boy is also staring at Enjolras, a fact that turns his cheeks pink.

“Why are you looking at me like that?” Enjolras questions, refusing to meet Grantaire's gaze.

“Oh, uh,” Grantaire hesitates for a moment, “You just look really cute, is all.”

Enjolras isn't sure what part of his outfit counts as 'cute'. He's wearing his scarlet duffle coat, the one with the gold rope fastenings, and black skinny jeans, along with his famous red Converse and the tricolour scarf that Jehan knitted for him. His hair is tied into a high ponytail with a red ribbon (he hasn't washed it since the night before Grantaire arrived, a fact that makes him ridiculously self-concious). He had considered wearing his beret too, but he thought better of it.

“Uh, thanks?” he says, smiling awkwardly at Grantaire, “You, um, you too.”

The other boy lets out a dry laugh and stuffs his hands in the pockets of his hoodie. “You don't have to lie,” he responds, and before Enjolras can retort he starts speaking again, “How are we actually getting to school, by the way? I presume we're not walking since Corinthe is quite a way from here.”

“Jean takes us in the minibus,” Enjolras informs him, “He should be here soon.”

“Let's hope he gets stuck in traffic,” Grantaire mumbles to himself, “Or there's an earthquake, so school is cancelled.”

“Somehow I doubt that there's going to be an earthquake in Paris, Grantaire.”

“Well, it's possible, I mean there could be-”

“I can't believe you ditched us, you traitors!” someone shrieks from behind them, and it doesn't take long for them to realise that it's Courfeyrac, “I haven't even spoken to you this morning, Enj. You were too busy flirting with-”

“Shh, Courf,” Combeferre hushes him, placing one hand over the boy's mouth to shut him up and the other around his waist. Courfeyrac squirms and squeals, trying to get free, but Combeferre is surprisingly strong and holds him in place easily.

“I wasn't flirting,” Enjolras says, absently kicking up some stones.

Courfeyrac manages to escape Combeferre's grasp for a moment. “Whatever you say, Enj- _mmph_!”

“You two are so gay together,” Grantaire remarks, as Ferre once again restrains Courf. The two boys look at him like he's mad.

“Oh, I think you've got the wrong idea,” says Combeferre, holding up his hands defensively, “We're gay but not like, _together_.”

“Actually I'm pan,” Courfeyrac corrects him, “But like, gay is easier to explain to people.”

“I know what pan is, Courf,” says Grantaire, “High five for bi and pan erasure.”

Courfeyrac's high five is a little too enthusiastic and Grantaire is left clutching his hand and whining.

“What about ace erasure?” Enjolras comments, unable to stop smiling at Grantaire as he playfully punches Courf's shoulder, “Most people don't even know asexuality exists.”

“Chill your virgin panties, Apollo,” Grantaire mutters, “We were talking about bi and pan erasure, ace erasure is- What?”

Combeferre's brow is creased and he's frowning disapprovingly. Courfeyrac is nervously biting his fingernails and Enjolras is staring blankly at his shoes.

“What did I say?” asks Grantaire, then he huffs, “God, what did I do wrong _now_?”

Combeferre shakes his head, warning Grantaire to be quiet. Enjolras just sighs.

“It's fine, R,” he says quietly. He briefly looks up at Grantaire, then turns away and looks out at the road. “Hey, Jean's here.”

“At last,” says Combeferre, but he's still scowling at Grantaire in a way that makes the younger boy shudder.

The white minibus parks up on the driveway and out jumps a cheerful Cosette, wearing a frilly turquoise dress with her blonde hair tied neatly into a bun. She rushes over to Marius with a broad grin on her face (of course she does, it's hardly surprising anymore) and Enjolras catches the scowl on Grantaire's face as she hugs him.

“Have you got something against Cosette?” he asks the boy, tilting his head to one side.

Grantaire sighs and shakes his head. “Nah, not really. It's just 'Ponine was talking about Marius...” He trails off, and Enjolras frowns. He's not sure whether he's more concerned by the fact Éponine has confided in Grantaire, or by the fact she's letting him call her 'Ponine. Maybe he's not concerned at all; maybe this is jealousy, and he's annoyed that Grantaire and Éponine have become friends so quickly, but that's not a possibility he wants to linger on.

“Come on, everyone,” says a chirpy Jean, sticking his head out the window, “Time for school!”

Courfeyrac lets out a groan. “That's really not something you should sound _that_ excited about, Monsieur Fauchelevent.”

Jean winks at him. Courfeyrac giggles like it's the most hilarious thing he's ever seen.

The journey to school is (as usual) chaotic. Half of the children are scribbling in their workbooks, completing homework that was set days ago. The other children are either chatting loudly or blasting music through their headphones. Combeferre and Courfeyrac are sat near the front, with Enjolras and Jehan on the other side of the row. Enjolras is in the process of completing his history homework but he's keeps glancing over his shoulder to see the posse of children on the back row, consisting of Montparnasse, Éponine and her siblings, and Grantaire.

As he watches Grantaire talk to Montparnasse with a crooked grin on his face, Enjolras decides that the boy must have a death wish (and clearly he didn't pay attention to any of his advice, but what was he expecting?).

They arrive at high school within twenty minutes (damn Parisian traffic) and Enjolras lets out a long sigh as he departs the minibus. Weekends are so _refreshing –_ a break from the nightmare that is school – and he hates Mondays with a passion. In fact he hates all weekdays. Except Wednesdays, which are tolerable because they only have lessons in the morning, meaning Enjolras can spend some time with his friends in the afternoon.

“I hate school,” he mumbles aloud, and someone behind him scoffs.

“Doesn't everyone?” replies Courfeyrac.

“No,” says Combeferre, frowning a little, “I don't hate school.”

“Yeah, but you're a _nerd_ , Ferre. You're not _supposed_ to hate school.”

Their first subject is English, meaning Enjolras does literally no work for the whole lesson. He doesn't see the point of learning foreign languages, unlike Marius and Jehan who are the school's resident linguists, Courfeyrac who speaks Hebrew, Combeferre who apparently speaks Vulcan because “he can”, Feuilly who's learning Polish... Actually, most of Enjolras' friends speak different languages, but that's not the point here.

The point is, English is boring and Enjolras has better things to do with his already pathetic life than discuss silent Ks (what a ridiculous language).

Instead he makes some notes in the margin of his book about what they should discuss at the next Les Amis de l'ABC meeting – yes, he's thinking about the next one even though the first was a total disaster – and fortunately the teacher doesn't seem to care when the only answer he can give to her question is a confused “yes?” and a raised eyebrow.

The next lesson is history, meaning that he actually gets some work done. But there's only so much someone can talk about Louis XVI and Marie Antoinette before it becomes tedious, and his teacher passed that point weeks ago. He ends up becoming frustrated and gives a two minute lecture on laissez-faire and capitalism before being sent out of the classroom for 'disruptive behaviour'.

God knows how, but Grantaire has managed to get kicked out of class on his _first_ day, which is why Enjolras finds him stood in the corridor chewing gum and leaning against the wall. His face lights up when he sees Enjolras, his grey-blue eyes bright with surprise and his lopsided grin revealing slightly yellowed teeth.

“Apollo!” he exclaims.

“Grantaire,” Enjolras greets with a soft smile, “Long time no see.”

“It's been like, two hours.”

The blond shrugs. The other boy chuckles in a way that seems contagious, and Enjolras can't help the broad grin that spreads across his face as he tries to restrain a laugh.

“Uh, listen,” Grantaire says, suddenly more sombre (and that's not something Enjolras is all too fond of), “What happened earlier, I'm sorry if I overstepped my boundaries or anything.”

Enjolras sighs. “It's fine,” he assures him, “It's... Well, like you said at the meeting, some of us are pretty fucked up.”

“I guess some of us are,” Grantaire muses, burying his hands in his hoodie's pockets, “I didn't see you as one of them, though.”

“Please,” scoffs Enjolras, “My life is the biggest fuck-up of all.”

“Join the club,” Grantaire jokes.

That makes Enjolras' lips twitch up into a smile. “That's what Les Amis de l'ABC are all about, right?” he asks, “The fucked up helping the even more fucked up.”

The brunet frowns a little, his eyebrows knitted together. “You know,” he says, “You swear an awful lot.”

“I only really swear when I'm passionate about something. It's been proven to have a persuasive effect on your audience.”

“You should write a book,” Grantaire comments with a smirk, “'Persuasion for Dummies' by Apollo Enjolras.”

“You know that's not _actually_ my name, right?”

“Of course I do. But it beats Alexandre, doesn't it?”

Enjolras considers this for a while, his eyes lowered to the floor. _Anything_ beats Alexandre. Anything beats the name his father chose for him; the name he whispered softly in his ear at night when he was sobbing and trembling beneath him, his whole body bruised and sore.

He wonders how long he can go without thinking about his father, because it seems like he can never get the man out of his head. He's a constant in his life – a looming shadow, always nearby but never close enough to hurt him, yet the fear is still crippling. His life _is_ pretty damn fucked up if he can't even go five minutes without thinking about the man who ruined it, the man who took his childhood away from him.

“Enj?”

Grantaire's voice brings him back to the mundane harshness of reality. Enjolras hesitates.

“I'm fine,” is all he says, though the slight crack in his voice says otherwise.

“If something's bothering you – which I can tell it is – I just want you to know that I'm _always_ here to listen, okay?” Grantaire sounds unbelievably sincere, “I know we haven't known each other for long but you... You mean a lot to me.”

Enjolras blinks. It's been barely _two and a half days_. God only knows how Grantaire has managed to form a bond in that ridiculously short amount of time. For Enjolras is takes _months_ to trust and to care about people.

Yet he _does_ have feelings for Grantaire, he realises; he gets an unexplainable flutter of joy in his chest whenever he sees him, and that thought is enough to drive him crazy.

The school bell rings.

“It's recess,” Enjolras remarks.

“I'm supposed to be meeting 'Ponine,” says Grantaire, “But I could stay with you, if you want?”

_Yes, I do want that, very much._ “It's okay. I'm meeting Ferre and Courf in the canteen.”

“Oh. Well, see you around.”

He's scuttling away before Enjolras has a chance to say goodbye. The blond sighs and hurries off in the opposite direction, towards the school canteen. There he finds Courfeyrac sat in a huddle with Marius and Jehan, but Combeferre is nowhere to be seen.

“Where's Ferre?” is the first thing Enjolras says when he reaches the table.

“Nice to see you too, Enjolras,” Jehan replies with a cheeky grin, and Enjolras loves this Prouvaire so much more than the shy creature he becomes around new people.

“I think he's at the library,” Courfeyrac says, “Not that I care.” He shrugs nonchalantly, but the sad look in his eyes tells Enjolras that he very much _does_ care.

“Guys, can you _please_ listen to me?” Marius pipes up, in a voice sounding like what can only be described as a petulant toddler, “I'm trying to tell you about Cosette.”

Enjolras decides that's the right time to leave.

Sure enough, he finds Combeferre in the library, accompanied by Joly. He presumes Musichetta and Bossuet are elsewhere, but seeing the boy without his two best friends is like seeing Robespierre without Saint-Just: it's just  _wrong_ (or maybe Enjolras has been reading too much historical fanfiction again).

“Ferre, Jol,” he greets the two boys with a nod, and Combeferre looks up through the corner of his eye but Joly seems entranced by the book he's reading, “Jol. Joly. _Jolllly_.”

“Enjollllras,” Combeferre cuts in, “Our good friend Joly is listening to music _._ ”

“Oh,” Enjolras responds with a frown. After a pause, he elects to pull the bud out of Joly's left ear, and the boy shrieks in surprise, “Hey Joly.”

“Why would you _do_ that, Enjolras?” Joly questions, sounding like he's physically in pain, “I was trying to listen to I Fight Dragons.”

“Who?”

“ _What_? You don't know who _I Fight Dragons_ are? Only the best band in existence, that's who!”

Enjolras furrows his brow and turns to Combeferre. “Are they the ones who did  _Radioactive_ ?”

Combeferre lets out a long sigh and pinches the bridge of his nose. “No, Enjolras,” he says, “That's Imagine Dragons.”

“Same thing, isn't it?”

“It's _really_ not,” Joly says, tapping his fingers rhythmically on the table, “I could explain the differences, if you want.”

“I don't want,” the taller boy replies quickly, “In fact, I think I'd rather listen to Marius talk about Cosette.”

Joly's expression makes it look like he's just been stabbed.

“You know I don't listen to any popular music,” Enjolras continues.

“Well, yeah, everyone knows that,” says Ferre, “The only things you listen to are Piaf and La Marseillaise.”

“And grungie political songs that nobody's heard of,” adds Joly.

Not paying attention to them, Enjolras picks up a leaflet that has the words  _École Corinthe: Collège et Lycée sur le Boulevard Saint-Michel_ printed in blue letters at the top of the page _,_ and reads the section about the school's promises. Halfway through reading, he decides it's a load of bullshit and puts it down again.

“I still think it was unfair to kill him in such a horrible way,” he hears Joly say to Combeferre, and he realises then that he has no idea what they're discussing.

“All the same,” Combeferre responds, “He deserved it for being a terrible brother. And it would have been a quick and painless death.”

“ _Painless_? You think pouring molten gold over someone's head would be-”

“What the _hell_ are you talking about?” Enjolras finally cuts in, unable to stand the confusion any longer.

“You've seen that episode, haven't you?” Combeferre inquires, “I know you haven't read the books, but I thought you watched the series with Courf.”

“Oh, Game of Thrones?” asks Enjolras, everything finally clicking into place as he remembers the scene with the silver-haired man (what was his name? Viscount?) having molten metal poured over his head, “I stopped watching it because there was too much...” He trails off, and Combeferre looks at him with wide brown eyes.

“ _Oh_.”

“Yeah.”

“I'm sorry.”

“It's okay. I kind of enjoyed it. The actual plot was good.”

“Okay.”

“Apart from the whole incest thing, that was really...”

“Weird?”

“Hard to watch.”

“Fuck.”

“It's fine. It was ages ago.”

“It's really not fine, I'm sorry.”

“It's _fine_.”

“Okay!” Joly exclaims, no doubt trying to prevent the situation from becoming any more awkward, “Why don't we talk about-” The bell rings again, and the group let out a collective sigh. “French. It's French next. Great.”

“I love French,” Enjolras says.

“I hate French,” Joly groans.

“I have chemistry,” Ferre tells them, a wide grin across his face, “Farewell Bran, Loras. Oh, tell Renly I said hi, he should be in your French class.”

Enjolras blinks, perplexed. “Who?”

“Oh. You're Loras so Grantaire is Renly; Joly's Brandon, Bossuet's Robb and Chetta is Arya; Cosette wanted to be Margaery which makes her your sister; I'm Drogo which meant Courf ended up as Dany because he's the moon of my... Uh. Okay, I have to go now.”

Enjolras can't help smiling at the utterly smitten look on Combeferre's face when he mentions Courfeyrac.

He and Joly make their way to the French department of school, where they find Courf and Grantaire. Courfeyrac is in Joly's class and Grantaire is in Enjolras', and his teacher decides that the new boy needs to be with a 'familiar face' which is why he ends up sat next to his blond classmate.

“Sorry about this,” he murmurs.

“You have nothing to be sorry for,” Enjolras responds with a soft smile, “As long as you let me get on with my work, it's fine.”

As luck has it, Grantaire ends up being a pest for the whole lesson, though Enjolras can't say he's surprised. The boy tries to copy his work, and when he has no success he resorts to just doodling in his book and nudging Enjolras in the arm every so often. Enjolras  _tries_ to concentrate on the lesson, he really does, but Grantaire is just  _so_ distracting.

“Stop it!” he hisses, when Grantaire elbows him for what seems like the hundredth time, “It's really annoy- Did you draw a penis on the desk?”

Grantaire giggles childishly and Enjolras rolls his eyes, but he smiles nonetheless.

“So immature,” he remarks, “How you managed to get into top set French, I'll never know.”

“I'm in bottom set for science and maths,” Grantaire says with a casual shrug of his shoulders, “God, I can't do maths for shit. But I can do French, I mean, it's not exactly _hard._ ”

“Rémy, be quiet,” the teacher warns him, before turning back to the board.

“Oh, Ferre says hi,” Enjolras whispers, “And we all have character names from Game of Thrones now, apparently. He says you're Renly, whoever that is.”

Grantaire grins. “Tell Ferre he has made a good decision,” he says, “Who are you?”

“Uh,” Enjolras tries to remember the name, “Loris?”

“ _Loras_?” Grantaire questions, and when Enjolras nods he bursts into uncontrollable laughter which is, once again, contagious.

That's how Enjolras ends up being kicked out of class for the second time in one day.

“I can't believe Ferre made us Loras and Renly,” Grantaire says when the classroom door shuts behind them, “That's fucking hilarious.”

“I don't understand the joke,” Enjolras tells him, frowning.

“I don't think you'd want to,” says Grantaire.

“Whatever,” the blond sighs, “We should, like, get out of here before Madame Beauchamp comes out to give us a lecture.”

Grantaire is, apparently, a rebel. He actually leads Enjolras  _out of the building_ and takes him to an isolated spot behind the drama studio, where he props himself up against the wall and fumbles through his school bag. Enjolras paces up and down, feeling like they're going to get caught any second.

“We're definitely getting in detention for this,” he says, “And it's your _first day._ ”

“I already have two detentions,” Grantaire tells him, smirking smugly like it's actually something to be proud of.

“How the hell did you manage that?”

The dark-haired boy winks at him and Enjolras feels his cheeks burning. “I'm a pro.”

He takes something small and green out of his bag, but it's only when he flicks a switch and Enjolras sees a flash of light that he realises what it is.

“A _lighter_?” he asks, incredulous, “You _smoke_?”

Grantaire rolls his eyes. “No, actually,” he responds, “Just because I own a lighter doesn't mean I'm a smoker. It's just fun to play with. Plus it's the colour of my favourite drink, so that's an added bonus.”

Enjolras fears for his health if his favourite drink is fluorescent green.

The boy flicks the lighter on again and holds his thumb over the bright flame.

“You're going to hurt yourself, stop it,” Enjolras snaps.

“What are you gonna do about it?” Grantaire queries with a shrug, “You don't control me.”

In one fluid motion, Enjolras reaches out to grab the lighter. Unfortunately Grantaire's reflexes are better than expected and he lifts his arm in the air before Enjolras can take it from him. This causes the sleeve of his hoodie to slip down his wrist just a fraction, and that's when things go to shit.

Enjolras gasps when he notices the boy's wrist, bruised and bloodstained and all cut up. The bruises are presumably from his abusive father, but the cuts... They're self-inflicted, even Enjolras can tell that.

“Oh fuck,” Grantaire mutters, dropping the lighter and hastily pulling his sleeve over his wrist.

“Oh _fuck_ ,” Enjolras echoes his words, “Grantaire, I-”

“So now you know how pathetic I am,” the boy interrupts him coldly, “I hope you're pleased with yourself.”

“You're not pathetic.”

“ _Don't_.”

“You're _not,_ ” Enjolras asserts, “You're just-”

“Messed up?” Grantaire suggests.

“Hurting,” corrects Enjolras with a sigh, “I've been there too, R. I know what it's like.”

“Oh, really? You know what it's like to feel this useless and unwanted?” the brunet snaps at him, raising his voice, and his eyes look almost manic, “Because honestly, Apollo, I don't think someone so fucking _perfect_ can possibly know how that feels.”

“I'm not perfect!” Enjolras almost screams, tears stinging his eyes and threatening to fall, “I know what it's like to feel like your life isn't worth living, what it's like to be hurt by someone who's supposed to love you, whether you believe me or not I've _been there too_.”

He's sobbing. He's furious. His whole body is shaking. He can feel his heart racing in his chest and his cheeks are flushed with anger.

“ _Fuck you_ if you think you're the only one who's capable of having problems.”

Grantaire stands there numbly like he doesn't know what to do, his eyes wide.

Enjolras turns to leave, but as he begins to hurry away Grantaire grabs hold of his arm.

“Wait,” the boy says, almost pleading with him. Enjolras looks over at him and notices, with a sigh, that his own grey eyes are brimming with tears. “Look, I'm sorry _._ I didn't mean to upset you-”

“Well, you did.”

“Jesus, just _listen_ to me, Apollo-”

“Don't call me that.”

“ _Fine_. Enjolras, will you please listen to me?”

There's a pause, then, “Okay.”

“I'm stupid for not realising sooner,” Grantaire begins, “You're right, I'm always just stuck in my own little bubble, pretending that my problems are bigger than everyone else's. But you have baggage too, don't you?”

Enjolras swallows. _Baggage._ It makes it sound like he brought it on himself, like this is his fault. Sometimes it still feels like it is (after all, his father always used to blame him for it: _you're too beautiful, I can't help myself_ ).

“I have more than my fair share of it, yes,” he responds bitterly, wiping his eyes with the sleeve of his coat.

“I'm sorry for not taking into consideration how you might feel, or what you may have been through. I'm sorry for generally being a massive cock about the whole thing.”

Enjolras grins. “You shouldn't use the word cock if you're trying to make yourself sound like a bad person,” he says softly, “I like cocks.”

Grantaire stares at him like he's mad, then bursts into a fit of hysterical giggles, and that's when Enjolras realises his mistake. He blushes profusely and awkwardly scratches the back of his neck.

“Shit. I meant the bird.”

“Of course you fucking did, you patriotic idiot.”

“So, are we good? You and me, are we still friends?”

The boy shrugs, shoving his hands into the pockets of his hoodie (it must be some sort of nervous habit, or perhaps something he does when he's at ease, Enjolras isn't sure). “I didn't think we were friends in the first place.”

“Of course we were,” the blond boy replies with a smile, “You're... Cool.”

Grantaire chuckles. “Thanks. You're not so bad yourself.”

The bell rings. They walk to maths together, though they're in different classes. Since maths is the most boring lesson of all time (even more so than English) Enjolras finds himself gazing distractedly out of the window. The windowsill is large and spacious, easily big enough for him to lie on. He could put some blankets and pillows down, make it into his own private den. That would be nice. He could read Rousseau and listen to Piaf and drink hot chocolate whilst-

“Alexandre, can you give us the answer?”

_Fuck._

He takes a deep breath and dares to guess, “Eighty-nine?”

The teacher looks, in a word, unimpressed. “No, Alexandre. The answer is _8c minus 2b_. Maybe I should sign you up for extra classes, since you clearly have no idea how to do algebra.”

“But I _do_ know how to do it!” Enjolras protests, never one to back down from a challenge, “Give me another question.”

Monsieur Dubois smirks. “Okay. Answer this.” He starts to write a question on the whiteboard with a squeaky marker pen, and Enjolras' heart drops when he sees what he's written:

_If **a=4c-b** , what does **d** equal in terms of **a**?_

“That's literally impossible,” the student argues.

“If you'd been paying attention to the other questions, you'd be able to get the answer,” his teacher retorts, “Next time try to focus on the class, rather than daydreaming about your crush on some girl or other.”

Enjolras scowls and stabs his pencil onto the front cover of his book, leaving an indentation on the card.

At lunch, he sits around a table with most of the children from the Musain, including Grantaire who is currently in the middle of a debate with Joly about dinosaurs. Courfeyrac keeps prodding him in the ribs to get his attention, whilst Combeferre sits on the other side of him reading a book.

“Enj, _talk_ to me!” Courf whines.

“Talk to Marius instead,” Enjolras responds, rubbing his temples in frustration.

“Marius is busy kissing Cosette,” his friend tells him, which is undoubtedly a total exaggeration so Enjolras turns to look and- Oh, Marius is actually kissing Cosette. Like, _really_ kissing her. Enjolras is concerned.

“I really don't want to talk to you, de Courfeyrac.”

“I hate you.”

“Hate you too.”

“Children, be _nice_ ,” Jehan cuts in, obviously trying not to laugh, “I'll talk to you, Courf.”

“Yes!” Courfeyrac practically squeals, “Thanks, dude. At least _someone_ is willing to share in the amazingness that is Courfeyrac's life.”

It could be his imagination, but there's something odd about the way Jehan flinches when Courfeyrac says the word 'dude', something that seems to make him uncomfortable.

Enjolras shakes his head dismissively, turning his attention back to his lunch: yet another tub of soggy, flavourless pasta. Great. He _loves_ this school.

“What's the matter?” he hears someone whisper in his ear, and he turns to face Combeferre with a start.

“Nothing,” he assures his best friend with a smile, “I'm fine.”

“You've been crying,” Ferre deduces.

“It was ages ago, it's fine.”

“What happened?”

The younger student sighs. Sometimes he really hates the way Combeferre can just pick up on the way he's feeling, like he's psychic.

“Grantaire,” he states simply, stabbing a piece of penne with his spork.

Combeferre doesn't respond.

The last two lessons pass incredibly slowly, but then _finally_ it's time to go home and Enjolras slumps down into a chair in the minibus with a relieved sigh. He ends up sat next to Bossuet for some reason, though he doesn't mind the boy's company. He may be the unluckiest guy in the world, but he's pleasantly easy to get on with.

Jean makes them vegetarian spaghetti bolognese for dinner (Courfeyrac complains that he's going to get fat with all the pasta he's eaten today) and they have ice-cream for dessert (Courfeyrac doesn't complain). Enjolras spends the rest of his evening completing homework, taking a lukewarm shower and reading a book whilst perched on his windowsill.

Just before they go to bed, he smiles over at Grantaire.

“I'm glad you're here,” he tells him, “I didn't think I'd like having a roommate, but I'm starting to enjoy it more.”

Grantaire grins back. “Me too, Apollo. Me too.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: I tried to make the school system as accurate as possible, but since I'm not from France myself there may be some errors. Sorry in advance!


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Warning for mentions of abuse as usual, also there's a reference to R having sex with an older guy which could be seen as dub con because he was drunk. Thanks for reading.

If Enjolras had to describe his week in a word, he'd pick mundane. Nothing remotely exciting happens after Monday, it's just the usual pattern of events (he wakes up in a panic, Grantaire calms him down, they have breakfast, they go to school and endure a day of boring lessons, he spends time with Courf and Ferre in the evening, he eats dinner, he showers, he brushes his teeth, he goes to bed).

It's a relief when it's finally Friday afternoon and Enjolras can relax for two whole days without the burden of school. He spends most of his time in his best friends' bedroom as usual, and at some point he finds himself wondering if he should ask Grantaire to join them. But Grantaire isn't here. Friday is when Bahorel does boxing, and Grantaire has tagged along with him tonight. Usually Bahorel gets home at around seven, but it gets to seven thirty and there's still no sign of him or Grantaire.

Then it gets to eight o'clock, and Enjolras presumes they're doing some extra practise or something.

Eight thirty and he starts to worry.

Quarter to eleven and he's anxiously pacing up and down his bedroom, sending text after text to Bahorel asking where he is and if he's alright and if _Grantaire's_ alright.

(Not that he cares for Grantaire more than he does Bahorel, not at all, he's known Bahorel for longer and they're good friends, but Bahorel is almost an adult and Grantaire is just a _kid_ so you can't blame him for being concerned).

At approximately half past one in the morning, Enjolras awakes to a _thud_. He hadn't even realised he'd fallen asleep, and he groans and rubs his neck when he sits up and notices that he's been sleeping on his windowsill, head pressed against the glass.

He hears the noise again and this time he infers that it's coming from his window.

Someone's throwing stones at his window, he realises with a groan.

Peering out of his window, Enjolras can barely see anything in the darkness outside. All he can make out are the silhouettes of two people on the driveway, one tall with broad shoulders, the other shorter and thinner...

_Jesus Christ._

“What the  _ fuck  _ are you doing?” he snaps angrily as he opens the window, “I've been going out of my mind for the past few hours. Did you not think to fucking  _ call  _ me?”

Bahorel snorts. “Sorry, Enj, didn't realise that you're my mother.”

“Where  _ were _ you?” Enjolras hisses, and when the two boys burst into giggles he bangs his head against the glass, infuriated, “Oh my God, you're drunk, aren't you?”

“Fucking pissed!” Grantaire responds, far too chirpy for one in the morning.

“Let us in, you milky prick,” says Bahorel.

“Imaginative,” the blond comments dryly. He slides off the windowsill and trudges out of his bedroom, putting on his red boot slippers as he leaves. Then he makes his way downstairs, cautious not to make too much noise in case Javert hears him, and pussyfoots through the hallway towards the front door.

He stops in his tracks when he hears something that sounds like a gentle sob coming from Javert's office.

But that's ridiculous because, well,  _ Javert. _

Even so, he presses his head against the door and listens in curiously.

“I'm just trying to do what's best for them, Jean,” says a voice that sounds suspiciously like Javert's yet it's upset and  _ fragile,  _ “Trying to keep them safe and give them a good life, give them a  _ home _ . That's all I want, for them to have the good childhood I never did. And yet they all hate me.”

Okay, Enjolras thinks with a pang of guilt in his chest, maybe they have been a bit harsh on Javert, but Javert's an  _ arsehole  _ so he kind of deserves it.

“I know you're trying your best,” replies a voice that sounds somewhat like Jean Fauchelevent but is far too serious, “And I can assure you, the kids will look back on their childhoods and remember how well you treated them.”

“I'm so harsh on them, Jean. I'm so cruel to them. I don't  _ mean _ to be, but seeing them hurt makes me so angry and I want to protect them from any more harm.”

“I know.”

“You must think I'm such a failure.”

“Not at all.”

“The worst is Alexandre. That boy  _ loathes _ me.”

Enjolras blinks. Is he really that much worse than everyone else? He does tend to shout at Javert a lot, and the two of them get into a lot of arguments, but he's not  _ that  _ bad. The worst he's ever done is tell the man that he's an interfering tyrant and they'd all be better off if he dropped dead... Wow, okay, Enjolras is a shitty person and Javert definitely didn't deserve that one.

“Javert, nobody loathes you. These children have had turbulent lives and it often comes out as anger, you know that better than anyone.”

Suddenly Javert is laughing, and it's menacing in a way that makes Enjolras' blood run cold. “Are you saying I've had a turbulent life, Valjean?”

_ Valjean _ ?

“If anyone's had a turbulent life it's you.”

He spits out the last word, and it's filled with venom and bitterness. Enjolras is so very confused and his head is hurting. He decides he's had enough of listening to this conversation for one night, and anyway, his friends are still waiting for him outside.

As he walks to the front door, he contemplates that  _ maybe _ Javert isn't that bad after all. He's done a lot of good things for the children, actually. Maybe  _ Enjolras _ is the one with the problem.

“Took your fucking time,” mutters an irritated Bahorel as the younger boy opens the door.

“Sorry. Got distracted,” Enjolras responds with a shrug, too annoyed at them both to feel guilty.

“He didn't look like you,” Grantaire slurs, and Enjolras turns to him with a furrowed brow, “He was too dark and his eyes were like mud and his hair was all black and greasy.”

“What's he talking about?” the blond queries and looks back at Bahorel, confused.

The older boy sighs. “R met a guy at the party and shit happened,” is the most explanation he gives.

“You kissed him?” Enjolras ventures to ask.

“Not  _ just _ a kiss,” remarks Grantaire, grinning from ear to ear, “We had the sex.”

“ _ R, _ ” Bahorel warns him.

“And I know you're gonna say we shouldn't have done it because you're a fucking prude, but I'm fifteen so I'm  _ legal  _ and it doesn't matter that he was older because he was so  _ good _ ...”

He keeps talking but Enjolras doesn't hear what he says. Instead he's focussed on the swirling feeling in his stomach and the bitter taste in his mouth.

“I'm gonna be sick,” he announces, before sprinting indoors and heading for the downstairs bathroom.

He has his head over the toilet, breathing too quickly with his eyes shut tight, when he hears someone talking to him. It's not until he's calmed down and is able to open his eyes again that he realises it's Combeferre.

“What are you doing?” he enquires with a catch in his throat, “You should be sleeping.”

“Bahorel came and got me, told me what happened,” answers Combeferre, rubbing circles into his friend's back, “I'm going to fucking kill Grantaire.”

“No,” Enjolras says, far more urgently than he would have liked, “He's drunk. I don't blame him.”

Combeferre just sighs. “Come on,” he says, helping Enjolras onto his feet, “Let's get you cleaned up.”

It's embarrassing to have his best friend wipe the vomit from around his mouth and out of his hair (he  _ really  _ needs to get a haircut soon), but Combeferre doesn't seem to mind at all. Enjolras almost starts crying, feeling like the most pathetic person in existence. Ferre simply plants a gentle kiss to his forehead and tells him he loves him.

“Too much drama for one night,” Enjolras mumbles, “I'm so tired.”

“I bet you are, butterfly.”

_ Butterfly _ . Combeferre hasn't called him that since they were still in single figures. That's a time Enjolras misses dearly, a time when he was  _ happy  _ and his whole life wasn't a mess.

“Have you been up all night?”

“Most of it.”

“Do you wanna sleep in my bed tonight?” Ferre questions, and when Enjolras' eyes widen he raises his hands as a sign that he means no harm and continues quickly, “On your own, I meant on your own. I can sleep in your bed so you don't have to be with Grantaire.”

Enjolras relaxes and smiles. “As long as you don't strangle him in his sleep,” he attempts to joke, then he sighs, “God, I can't believe that he went out and got drunk and... And you know.”

“Yeah, I know.”

“But he's not  _ all  _ bad, Ferre. And he has his own problems, just like the rest of us. He's capable of being a very good person, when he wants to be.”

Combeferre grins fondly. “You always see the best in people, don't you?”

Enjolras' smile contorts into a frown. “Not always. I think I've been way too harsh on Javert.”

“Probably, but nobody blames you for it.”

“He thinks I hate him.”

“Which you shouldn't, and which I know deep down you don't.”

“He just makes me angry.”

“I can't blame you for that.”

“He's just so-”

“Bed,” Combeferre interrupts sternly, leading Enjolras out of the bathroom, “It's like, quarter past two in the morning. You need to sleep.  _ I  _ need to sleep.”

Ferre's bed is soft and Enjolras feels like he's lying on a cloud. There are two blankets on top of the duvet, one green and one brown, and it makes him feel secure. Courfeyrac is just across the room, making strange purring noises in his sleep. Enjolras thinks he might be slightly in love with dozy Courf. He smiles and closes his eyes, and he's asleep almost as soon as he does.

_Hands groping, everywhere... Wrists pinned up above your head... So much pain, make it stop... Someone help... Make it stop..._

“I'm here, nobody's gonna hurt you, it's okay.”

_'Taire...?_

“No, Courf.”

_No... Not Courfeyrac... Grantaire... Why isn't Grantaire here?_

“Enjolras, wake up. Please wake up.”

_It should be Grantaire, why isn't it Grantaire?_

“ Enj,  _ please. _ ”

He opens his eyes. Courfeyrac's stood over him, gripping his shoulders. This isn't his room, and he's being pinned down on the bed, and he can't breathe.

“No, no, no! Enjolras, it's okay! I-I don't... Fuck it. Stay here, okay? I'll be right back.”

He's curled into a ball, rocking back and forth and practically tearing his hair out as Courfeyrac scurries out of the room. He doesn't hear him come back in; all he can hear is his own voice screaming at him, telling him he's not safe and he needs to escape, but he can't move.

“I need you to breathe for me, Alexandre,” a voice says to him. It's a lot deeper than Courfeyrac's and they use his first name, which vaguely reminds him of his father and sends a new wave of panic surging through him. “It's okay, I'm not going to hurt you. Just try to breathe. Can you do that for me? Try it with me. In... Out... Yes, that's good, keep going.”

When his breathing is back to a relatively normal speed, he opens his eyes and for a second all he can see is specs of bright light, but then everything else comes into focus. He's on the floor and Javert is kneeling beside him, with Courfeyrac and Combeferre stood a little further back. Ferre is crying –  _ sobbing _ – and Courfeyrac is squeezing his hand tightly.

“You're okay now, Alexandre, it's all okay,” Javert says, sounding so sincere that Enjolras would shout at him if he wasn't exhausted because when is Javert  _ ever  _ sincere?

“I'm sorry,” he manages to whisper feebly instead, his throat so sore that it hurts to speak.

“Don't be. Stay here, I'll go and get you something to drink, alright?”

Javert smiles at him then makes his way out of the room. Combeferre rushes out after him, followed by Courfeyrac, so Enjolras is left alone. After a while, Javert returns with a glass of cranberry juice and a plate of biscuits, and he sits with the boy for a while in silence before clearing his throat and stating regretfully that he has other things to do.

Enjolras wants to look for Ferre and Courf but he's too tired. When he stands up, he barely manages a step forward before sighing and slumping down on Combeferre's bed. He lies there for most of the morning, half-asleep. Nobody disturbs him until Grantaire decides to storm through the door, startling Enjolras out of his tired daze.

“I don't know what I did last night,” Grantaire begins, sounding tetchy, “But Ferre got proper fucking mad at me so I guess I should apologise.”

“You're hungover,” Enjolras states weakly.

“No shit, Sherlock.”

“And you might have an STD.”

Grantaire scoffs and takes a seat on Courfeyrac's bed. “Whatever, dude.”

“I mean it. You need to get checked out. You might have chlamydia or herpes or-”

“Since when are you the expert on sexually transmitted infections?” the dark-haired boy cuts in with a smirk, raising an eyebrow.

Enjolras bites the inside of his cheek and says nothing. Grantaire looks impressed with himself, and Enjolras decides he definitely hasn't figured anything out yet. He doesn't want him to figure it out, ever. He's fine with him knowing he was abused, that's something  _ everyone  _ knows now, but the thought of Grantaire discovering exactly  _ how  _ he was abused is something Enjolras doesn't want to consider.

He can imagine how the conversation would go. Grantaire would look shocked for a second, then he'd give Enjolras that familiar look of feigned pity and say he's  _ so sorry,  _ because that's what people say when they find out you've been raped, isn't it? Either that or “you must have been leading him on” but Enjolras has enough faith in humanity to doubt that anyone would say that to a boy who was first abused when he was  _ nine. _

Three years. Three years of abuse and pain and a never-ending nightmare, before he was finally put into care. He can't help wondering whether Grantaire suffered it for longer.

“Anyway,” Grantaire continues, bringing Enjolras out of his depressing train of thought, “I don't have sex often, so it hardly matters.”

“Wow, that makes it  _ so much better _ ,” Enjolras says sarcastically.

“So I'm not like, a slut or anything.”

“Please don't use that word.”

“Why not?”

Which reason is better: 'because it's degrading and misogynistic' or 'because my father used to call me that sometimes'? How fucked up is that, Enjolras thinks, that his _ father  _ called him a slut? Not to mention  _ angel  _ and  _ baby  _ and... No, he can't think about that now, he really doesn't want to have  _ another  _ panic attack today.

“Because it's degrading and misogynistic,” Enjolras says with a sigh.

Grantaire shrugs. “Sorry, dude. Won't use it again.”

“That- Wow, thanks, okay. Normally people argue with me about it.”

“Don't get me wrong,” replies Grantaire, “I  _ love  _ arguing with you, but I don't want to be a sexist asshole. I'd rather stick to being a plain old asshole, thanks.”

After he's finished the lunch that Javert brought upstairs for him, Enjolras spends the afternoon in a state of confusion because  _ Javert is being nice to me  _ and  _ for some reason he called Jean 'Valjean'  _ and  _ Grantaire wasn't trying to irritate me for once.  _ None of these things really matter, though, and there's one thought that drowns out the rest:  _ Combeferre hasn't come to see me all day. _

At some point the door opens and he looks up expectantly but his heart falls when he sees that it's just Jean.

“You alright, Enj?” the man asks with a warm smile. Enjolras notices that Cosette is trailing behind him, looking equally if not more concerned than her adoptive father. Bless her.

“I'm fine,” he lies, then pauses before adding, “Do you know where Ferre is?”

Jean's smile fades. “He's been in the garden with Courfeyrac all day,” he tells him, then he sighs, “Combeferre is... He's not really in the mood for seeing you right now, Enjolras.”

“Ah.”

“He needs some space.”

“Isn't it cold outside?” Enjolras questions, propping himself up on his elbow, “I mean, it's the middle of February.”

Cosette grins at him sweetly. “It's quite hot today, actually,” she replies, “This month is so weird. It's been freezing on some days but nice and warm on others.”

“There were big grey clouds approaching when I last looked, though,” Jean comments with a frown, “I think there's a thunderstorm coming.”

_ A thunderstorm.  _ Suddenly, Enjolras decides he needs to stop lazing around and instead he should do something about this storm (no, he's not going to do a dance to make the rain go away, he's fifteen not  _ five _ ).

“I have to go,” he says simply, getting out of bed. He's a bit lightheaded and dizzy at first, but he manages to make his way downstairs to the first floor by gripping onto the bannister. As if on cue, he hears a loud rumble of thunder, followed by a shriek coming from a bedroom down the hall.

He knocks on the door a few times, and he hears Musichetta telling him to come in.

The girl is stood in front of the wardrobe, one hand on the doorknob. She lets out a sigh and turns around to smile at Enjolras, but it looks strained. The blond tilts his head to one side, confused.

Then there's another roar of thunder and someone makes another noise, this time a whimper, coming from inside the wardrobe.

“He saw the clouds and hid in here,” Chetta tells him, tapping on the wooden door.

“That wardrobe is tiny,” Enjolras remarks, “He won't have enough space in there. Jesus, Chetta, he's going to injure himself.”

“I know. So we need to get him out.”

“Just open the door?”

Musichetta sighs again and runs a hand through her hair (she's straightened it so the afro is gone). “I've tried. Somehow he's managed to barricade himself in there.”

Enjolras decides that now is not the time to start talking about revolution, even though the temptation to do so is almost irresistible.

“Let me talk to him,” he says, and Chetta raises her eyebrows as he makes his way towards the wardrobe, “Hey Jol, can you hear me?”

There's a pause, then, “I'm going to  _ die _ , Enjolras.”

“You're not going to die,” Enjolras assures him, “It's just a little rain and some thunder, okay? It can't hurt you.”

“And lightning,” Joly says, letting out a terrified wail when the thunder sounds once more, “ _ Lightning,  _ Enjolras.”

“We're inside. The lightning can't hurt you, Joly.”

“My pulse is too fast and I'm  _ dying _ .”

“Your pulse is too fast because you're scared, Joly,” Musichetta says, “Can you open the door for me, honey? It's safe out here, I promise.”

“I don't want to die, Chetta...” Joly mewls.

“You're not going to,” the girl responds sternly, “ _ Please _ come out, Joly.”

After a moment, the wardrobe door is pushed open and Joly looks up at his friends with wide, tear-filled eyes.

“Where's Bossuet?” he asks, sniffing.

As look would have it (which is an odd phrase to use when talking about Bossuet), the boy bursts through the bedroom door at that very instant and runs over to the wardrobe.

“Are you okay, little dinosaur?” Bossuet inquires worriedly, taking Joly's tiny hands in his own, “Are you hurt?”

“Knee hurts, head hurts,” Joly says feebly, “And there's a  _ storm,  _ 'Suet.”

“I know, Jolllly.”

The bald boy turns to Enjolras with a frown. “We need to get him out of there, and I don't trust myself to lift him on my own.”

Enjolras nods and helps Bossuet lift Joly out of the wardrobe. They place him down on his bed (the duvet is covered in little dinosaurs and Enjolras feels an actual ache in his heart because he loves Joly  _ so much _ ) and as Musichetta cuddles him, Bossuet studies his knee.

“It doesn't look damaged,” he says, “But I'm no doctor. Maybe we should get Ferre.”

“Ferre's not a doctor either,” Enjolras remarks.

“He wants to be a doctor, there's a difference,” adds Chetta.

“I want to be a doctor too,” Joly says, “And I don't  _ think  _ that my knee is broken or anything but it hurts  _ a lot. _ ”

“No school for you on Monday if it's still hurting, kiddo,” replies Musichetta with a smile.

Enjolras rolls his eyes. “Javert will make him go anyway."

“Nah,” Bossuet responds, “Javert lets him stay off when he's hurt or ill, but he goes to Jean's.”

Something clicks in Enjolras' brain and all he can think is  _ how did I not notice that _ ? Now that he thinks about it, whenever Joly's been in pain or stressing about being ill, Javert has always helped him into the minibus, not  _ forced  _ him in like Enjolras has thought for years. He's been telling lies to Grantaire about how despicable Javert is when, in fact, he's not that bad after all. He should know better than to make presumptions about people.

“We have ice-cream together,” Joly giggles, but the laughter stops when there's another crash of thunder. He squeaks.

“It's okay, chicken,” says Bossuet.

“No, no it's not,” Joly replies, shaking his head.

Musichetta gives Enjolras a pointed look and mouths, “Go and get Jean.”

So that's what Enjolras does.

Once he's told Jean (Valjean?) about the situation with Joly, he sighs and makes his way to his room. He blinks when he opens the door and sees Combeferre and Courfeyrac sat on his bed. The former stands up abruptly and clears his throat.

“We thought you were in our room,” he says.

“So you came here to avoid me,” Enjolras finishes, his heart sinking.

“I'm sorry, Enji,” says Courfeyrac, “We were just-”

“I get it,” Enjolras cuts in, “You can't handle how pathetic I am today, right?”

Combeferre glares at him. “You're not pathetic. Don't you dare say that. Do you have any idea how much I care about you, Enjolras? I fucking  _ love  _ you and I want to help you, I really do, but what use am I when I'm such a damn mess?”

“It's okay,” Courfeyrac sighs, and he presses a kiss to Ferre's cheek, “You're allowed to be upset for once.”

“For once,” Enjolras repeats, feeling incredibly ashamed of himself, “It's always  _ me  _ who's upset. That's not fair on you two.”

“Enj,” Ferre says, his voice stern but full of affection, “You have every reason to be upset.”

_Oh God,_ Enjolras thinks, because it always comes back to this, doesn't it? Even his  _best friends_ pity him.

“You know, I don't think I can have this conversation right now,” he responds, before storming out of the room.

He wanders aimlessly through the house until he bumps into someone in the hallway, spilling the drink he had been holding down their black t-shirt, and it's with horror that he realises it's Montparnasse.

“I'm going to kill you,” the boy say, almost casually.

“Uh, sorry, Mont,” Enjolras apologises, smiling awkwardly and internally praying (he's not even religious, this probably isn't going to help him much).

Montparnasse glowers at him and for a moment Enjolras thinks he is actually about to be murdered, until he hears Éponine's voice calling, “Leave the fucking nerd alone, 'Parnasse.”

“He should watch where he's going,” Montparnasse responds, jabbing Enjolras hard in the ribs with his index finger on each syllable, “He ruined my fucking shirt.”

“He didn't fucking mean to,” Éponine retorts, appearing beside Montparnasse with her arms folded. He towers over her, easily a foot taller, and even though Montparnasse may be lean compared to most people he looks almost muscular next to her because she is _scrawny_. Enjolras briefly wonders how someone so small and fragile can be so terrifying. “Just put your shirt in the fucking wash and leave him the fuck alone.”

Montparnasse stares at her for a second before replying, “Get fucked, 'Ponine.”

She beams at him.

As Enjolras walks away (read: makes his escape) from the pair, he takes a moment to thank every deity he can think of for the prevention of his untimely death. Hallelujah. Montparnasse didn't kill him... Although he'll probably try to make his life hell now - it's a cold and it's a broken hallelujah.

He decides to go back and check on Joly, only to discover that Jean has taken him to the infirmary accompanied by Chetta and Bossuet.

Then he goes to Jehan and Marius' room, but neither of them are in there. He asks around and finds out that Marius is with Cosette and Jehan is doing homework.

He can't find Bahorel and Feuilly anywhere either, and right now Combeferre and Courfeyrac want nothing to do with him. So, basically, Enjolras has no friends.

Except for the two he finds in Gavroche's bedroom, one asleep on the bed and the other lying on the floor. He can't stop smiling when he sees sleepy little Gavroche Thénardier, and his smile grows wider when he notices that Grantaire is colouring a sketch.

“What are you drawing?” Enjolras asks in a hushed voice, sitting down beside Grantaire.

The boy sighs before grinning at him and showing him his sketchbook. “Just doodles,” he says, chewing the end of a red pencil, “Nothing special.”

He's drawn cockades, lots of them, except they're not all French tricolour. Enjolras sees the pinks and the blues and the yellows but it's not until he sees one particular cockade, purple and white and grey and black, that Enjolras realises.

“These are amazing!” he exclaims. Grantaire shushes him so that he doesn't wake Gavroche. “I could ask Feuilly if he'd make these for us, and we can wear them at meetings. I'll have this one,” He points to the black/grey/white/purple cockade, “And Courf can wear this one,” This time he points to one in pink and blue and white.

Grantaire looks at him, perplexed. “I think you mean this one?” he offers, pointing at the pink and yellow and blue one.

“Shit,” Enjolras says, his smile fading, “We haven't told you, have we?”

The dark-haired boy raises an eyebrow. “Courf's... A girl?”

The blond's eyes widen and he shakes his head rapidly. “No, no, no. Courf's a boy.”

“Then how come he's sharing a room with Combeferre, if Javert's so big on gender segregation?” Grantaire questions.

Enjolras frowns. “Because Courf's a boy?”

The other boy groans, frustrated. “No, I mean... God, how do I word this without sounding like a bigot? If Courf's a _trans_ boy why is he sharing a room with Combeferre?”

“Oh. Well, Javert lets him.”

“Please elaborate.”

“Uh, well Courfeyrac came out as trans when he was like, I can't remember, ten? He was quite young, anyway. Javert just moved him from Chetta's room to Ferre's and started using he/him pronouns, and it's been like that ever since.”

Grantaire blinks. “Hold on,” he says, incredulous, “You told me that Javert was a dick.”

“Well, he is,” Enjolras responds.

“He's literally the only adult I've met who would be that accepting of a kid for being LGBT. Like seriously, that guy deserves some more respect, and you should cut him some fucking slack if he's so accepting of us.”

'Us' makes it sound like they're aliens or something. Enjolras doesn't say that out loud.

“I feel like I've been too harsh on him,” he sighs, “Christ, it's like Jean all over again.”

“Jean?” Grantaire inquires, raising an eyebrow.

“When I first came to the Musain, I... I wasn't very nice to him, let's say.”

“Were you nice to the children?”

Enjolras furrows his brow. “Yeah, but how does that have any relevance?”

“Trust issues. That's what this is, Apollo. You have some sort of issue with adults.”

“No I don't,” the blond snaps, scowling, “They made me see a therapist and I didn't have an issue with her.”

“ _Her_ ,”Grantaire repeats, “Ah, I believe I have solved the problem. It's adult males; you can't trust adult males.”

Enjolras tenses.

“That explains why you're so frosty to Javert.”

He grits his teeth.

“So is it some sort of defence mechanism?”

Clenches his fists.

“Some subconscious thing, I guess?”

Closes his eyes.

“Like your brain stops you from trusting them in case they hurt you... Jesus Christ, Enj, are you okay?”

“I'm fine,” Enjolras says and turns to Grantaire with a fake smile, “But please never try to psychoanalyse me ever again.”

His roommate grins sheepishly. “Sorry. I've been spending too much time with my psychiatrist.”

“You have a psychiatrist too?”

“All fucked up kids with a tragic backstory have a psychiatrist, Enjolras.”

Tragic backstory. All Enjolras knows about Grantaire is that his father abused him in some way. That's it. No other details, no story, nothing. Grantaire is an enigma wrapped in a mystery and every day Enjolras finds himself more and more intrigued by him.

Jean gets back from the infirmary a while later (Joly's okay, thank goodness) and calls everyone down for dinner. Enjolras tells Grantaire to go on without him, deciding instead to take a shower and go to bed early. Panic attacks are tiring as hell and he really needs to sleep.

Enjolras pretends to be asleep when Grantaire comes to their bedroom and gently brushes a strand of golden hair away from his face before getting in to his own bed. Enjolras pretends the reason his heart is racing has nothing to do with the fact _Grantaire stroked his hair._ It's just that he doesn't like physical contact. Yes, that's definitely what it is.

“Goodnight,” he hears Grantaire mumble from across the room.

He doesn't reply.

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My continuity is terrible and my writing is sloppy, but thanks for reading <3


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